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STELLA DALLAS 





STELLA DALLAS 

J JVOFEL 


BY 

OLIVE HIGGINS PROUTY 

• ■ 

AUTBOR OF BOBBIE, GENERAL MANAGER,” ” THE FIFTH WHEEL,” 
” THE STAR IN THE WINDOW,” ETC. 





BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

CamMce 


1923 


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COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY OLIVE HIGGINS PROUTY 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



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PRINTED IN THE U.&A. 



TO 

OLIVIA 

WHO IS NEVER ABSENT 


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STELLA DALLAS 

• • 

CHAPTER I 

1 

Laurel was thirteen years old. Her hair was 
the color of ripe horse-chestnuts, and had the same 
gloss. She wore it in a long smooth bang in front, 
which reached nearly to her eyebrows, and in long 
smooth curls behind, which reached nearly to her 
waist. Laurel’s mother always placed one of the 
curls over each shoulder after she had made them 
perfect by much brushing and smoothing over a dex¬ 
terous forefinger. Laurel always, with a quiet, al¬ 
most imperceptible, little motion of her head, placed 
them behind as soon as her mother turned away. 

Laurel’s clothes were consistent with the extreme 
bang and the long curls. There was never anything 
casual or careless about her costumes. When she 
appeared for breakfast in the big hotel dining-room 
dressed in one of her violet ginghams, smocked in 
seal-brown, with seal-brown stockings, and seal- 
brown shoes, and a seal-brown hat, she was like 
an Elsie DeWolfe room in the perfection of her 
color scheme. 

She always changed for luncheon, as did her 
mother and most of the other smartly dressed 
women in the hotel, and again for dinner; and al- 


2 


STELLA DALLAS 


ways the shoes and stockings, ribbons, hats, sweat¬ 
ers, and what-not harmonized with her various lin¬ 
ens, pastel-shaded Japanese crepes, organdies, or 
hand-embroidered serges for cool days. 

“ That Dallas woman must spend about all her 
time over that child’s clothes,” Laurel had one day 
overheard from behind the high back of one of the 
hotel-piazza rocking-chairs. 

Laurel was sitting by an open window in an empty 
cardroom just behind the chairs. Laurel liked to sit 
and listen to what the women talked about on the 
other side of that high cane wall of chair-backs. 
Sometimes, however, she heard things that made 
her grave, contemplative eyes still graver and still 
more contemplative. There had been scorn in the 
voice which had referred to her mother. 

“ I wonder,” she thought, “ if we did n’t dress 
quite so well, people might n’t be nicer.” 

She waited for more enlightening remarks from 
behind the chair-backs, but none were forthcoming, 
so she rose, sauntered out of the cardroom, wan¬ 
dered down a long deserted corridor, and drifted 
into the hotel foyer. 

She was tall for thirteen, with long slim legs, long 
slim arms, and a long slim body. “ Nice eyes, kiddie, 
but you’d make mighty poor eating,” one of the 
habitues of the poolroom had said to Laurel one 
day, as she stood staring at the clicking balls on the 
bright green felt, and he had pinched one of Lau¬ 
rel’s pipestem arms — bare from the elbow down, 
and brown now to her finger-tips. 

Laurel did have nice eyes. They were gray eyes, 
set well apart. They had long, well-defined brows 


STELLA DALLAS 


3 

— level, almost parallel to the straight bang above 
which nearly touched them. There was in Laurel’s 
eyes a look of wistful inquiry, an almost spiritual 
expression sometimes. They were more than nice 
eyes. They were beautiful eyes. In contemplating 
them, one forgot her freckles. For Laurel had 
freckles. In spite of lemon-juice every night — in 
spite of various concoctions, which so far had not 
disturbed the line texture of her dark smooth skin, 
still she had freckles. But beneath the freckles 
there was a glow, like the glow beneath the flecked 
tan of a russet apple. This, and the freckles, and 
the spiritual something in her eyes gave her a sort 
of woodsy charm, which no amount of garnishing 
could conceal. She was seldom seen on the floor of 
the hotel ballroom dancing with the other children. 
Usually she could be found standing somewhere by 
herself, quiet and composed; or sitting in a chair 
with a book. Yet there was something about Laurel, 
standing or sitting, or walking slowly down the long 
length of the dining-room behind her mother to 
their table in a far corner, that recalled certain pic¬ 
tures of young girls dancing in the woods — Isadora 
Duncan pupils, perhaps — slim, sleek, sylvan crea¬ 
tures in Greek draperies. 

Laurel leaned up against one of the pillars in the 
hotel foyer and gazed about her. The place was 
wrapped in its usual mid-afternoon lifelessness — a 
few idle bellboys on the bench at the foot of the 
broad staircase; a couple of idle elevators; a soli¬ 
tary clerk behind the brass grill over the mahogany 
desk; dozen upon dozens of empty armchairs; in 
one of them an old man, with a King Orange nose, 




4 STELLA DALLAS 

sound asleep; in a far corner four women playing 
silent bridge. 

As Laurel gazed at the women, her eyes took on 
their peculiar contemplative expression. She knew 
who they were. Three of the players were prominent 
social leaders in the hotel-world; and the fourth, 
the poor, pinched-looking, unattractive little crea¬ 
ture in black, was Mrs. Tom Lawrence, who had 
arrived two days ago. Laurel had learned all about 
Mrs. Tom Lawrence from behind the chair-backs. 
As she stared, her eyes narrowed. “ They Ve being 
nice to Mrs. Lawrence,” she thought, “ and Mrs. 
Lawrence is divorced, while mother is only ‘ sepa* 
rated.’ ” 

She slid into the deep-seated lap of an enormous 
leather armchair near by. Through the big front 
doors she could catch a glimpse of a group of girls 
about her own age, seated on the piazza railing, 
swinging their legs, and eating candy. One of the 
girls was the daughter of the pretty Mrs. Cameron, 
now playing bridge in the far corner. Laurel did 
not join the girls. She did n’t give mothers at a sum¬ 
mer hotel a second opportunity to call, “ Come, 
dear, I think you’d better come in now,” to their 
children when she became one of a group; nor the 
children themselves to link arms and move away 
from her. 

This year she had scarcely given them a first op¬ 
portunity. Somehow things had been worse this 
year than ever before, and right from the start, too. 

She looked up at the loud-ticking clock. It was 
only quarter after four. Her mother had told her 
that she must amuse herself this afternoon. She al- 


STELLA DALLAS 


5 

ways had to do that, whenever her mother was go¬ 
ing to be busy in the bedroom they shared, “ wash¬ 
ing out a few things.” There was n’t room for two, 
when there was laundering going on. 

2 

Laurel sighed, rose from the big chair and wan¬ 
dered over to the glass-covered case of candies; 
stared at them for a minute or two; turned away; 
listlessly observed a rack of picture postcards. Fi¬ 
nally she meandered down a long corridor past a 
series of cardrooms to a little pink parlor at the 
end. From behind a cushion on a sofa, she drew 
forth a book, and tucking it under her arm returned 
to the big chair. She curled herself up in it, child- 
fashion, and opened the book well towards the mid¬ 
dle. She began to read. 

The old man woke up and left his chair. The 
game of bridge came to an end. The four players 
disappeared. The group of girls on the railing out¬ 
side drifted apart. But Laurel did n’t once glance up. 
She hardly moved for a whole hour and a half ex¬ 
cept to turn the pages of the book. The hotel had 
suddenly ceased to exist for Laurel Dallas. Her 
heart was bleeding for David Copperfield. 

Laurel never read “ David Copperfield ” when 
her mother was with her. To-day the book, as 
usual, would be returned to its hiding-place behind 
the cushion in the little parlor when she had finished 
with it. Laurel never carried it with her upstairs 
for her mother to catch a glimpse of, and make re¬ 
marks upon. Of course her mother had had to know 
that she had tucked it, with several other books. 


6 


STELLA DALLAS 


into a corner of the bottom of her trunk when they 
had last packed. But there was no need in flaunting 
it before her mother’s eyes. On the fly-leaf of Lau¬ 
rel’s “David Copperfield ” was written: “To 
Laurel, from her father,” with Christmas and a 
date below. There had been a whole boxful of them. 

“ Books! ” her mother had said with an excla¬ 
mation of disappointment when they had been re¬ 
ceived the preceding December, “ a whole pile of 
old-fashioned books! ” 

Laurel knew her mother preferred something 
more modern, when it came to printed matter — in¬ 
forming literature that kept one up-to-date as to 
what was going on in the world of clothes, and 
fashion, and society; photo-play magazines, with 
some theater-talk in them, and a few snappy short 
stories. The table In the bedroom which Laurel 
shared with her mother was always littered with a 
dog-eared collection of such periodicals. 

Laurel took the elevator up to that bedroom now. 
It was after six o’clock, and by this time, she calcu¬ 
lated, the Ironing-sheet and forbidden electric-iron 
would be safely tucked out of sight in the bottom of 
her mother’s trunk. 


3 

It was n’t an attractive bedroom. It was tucked 
way up under the eaves, had slanting walls, and a 
single curtainless window. Its furniture was much 
too big for it — made It look sick and shrunken, like 
a child In cast-off clothes many sizes too large. The 
iron bed, white enamel once but nicked and battered 
now, extended halfway across the window-pane; and 


STELLA DALLAS 


7 

there was a perfectly tremendous stuffed armchair 
In the room, discarded from some parlor below evi¬ 
dently, a shabby affair which, shut up In this little 
coop, was like some big ugly animal crammed into a 
circus cage — a rhinoceros Laurel decided, for It 
was the same dingy color, and its back and arms 
were worn bare and napless. 

The walls of the room were covered with un¬ 
pleasant reminders of former occupants — long 
brown streaks made by the striking of sulphur 
matches, oil-stains, ink-spots, splotches where flies 
and mosquitoes had met bloody deaths, and bruises 
here and there exuding dry plaster. Behind the 
commode the faded, jaundiced-colored paper bore 
the whitish, pocked appearance of a face once swept 
by smallpox; and where the bed was shoved close 
against the wall the paper was rubbed shiny and am¬ 
ber-colored. Laurel thought It was the worst 
“ cheapest room ” that she and her mother had 
ever occupied for a whole season. 

Laurel was experienced In cheapest rooms. They 
were all more or less alike. That Is, there was al¬ 
ways something chronic and incurable the matter 
with them. They were either up very high beneath 
the eaves, possibly a floor above where the elevator 
ran, or down very low beside a noisy service-room, 
or groaning elevator-shaft. Some of them had queer 
smells. Some developed queer smells. Most of them 
were furnished with discards, and all of them were 
equipped with the everlasting commode, bowl-and- 
pitcher, and unlovely slop-basin. 

Laurel used to dread her first glimpse of the lat¬ 
est “ cheapest roomher mother had engaged, 


8 


STELLA DALLAS 


trailing with a sinking heart after the scornful bell¬ 
boy who guided them along endless halls and corri¬ 
dors, farther and farther away from the luxury of 
the office downstairs, to the door of the undesirable 
little apartment, flinging it open, it seemed to Lau¬ 
rel, with a gesture of disgust. But Laurel’s mother 
told her she ought to be thankful that such things 
as “ cheapest rooms” existed. “ It is only by occupy¬ 
ing the cheapest room in the house, that you and I 
can go to nice hotels, where nice people go,” Mrs. 
Dallas explained to her daughter. 

The hotels which Mrs. Dallas patronized were 
always elaborate affairs with expensive, porte-co- 
chered entrances, big impressive foyers lit by enor¬ 
mous inverted alabaster bowls, and dining-rooms of 
ballroom dimensions filled with round tables, and 
mahogany chairs, and during the crowded dinner 
hour, an army of waiters with huge oval trays rush¬ 
ing about like darting water-bugs. 

To Laurel there was something magic in the fact 
that it was possible under the same roof to eat and 
sleep in such different surroundings. She used to pre¬ 
tend that, like Cinderella, a wand was waved over 
her, too, when she emerged from the shabbiness of 
some “ cheapest rooms ” and approached the splen¬ 
dor of some ground-floors with their bright lights, 
bright music, long stretches of soft carpet springy as 
moss, with women trailing over it on their way 
to the dining-room for dinner — pretty, rich-look¬ 
ing women with bare necks, and shoulders powdered 
as white as gardenias. 

But their necks and shoulders weren’t any barer 
nor any whiter than Laurel’s mother’s, nor their 


STELLA DALLAS 


9 

cheeks any rosier, nor were they any prettier I Lau¬ 
rel thought that her mother was the very prettiest 
lady that she had ever seen in any hotel I 

4 

One morning In late August Laurel woke up 
very early in the slant-cellinged bedroom under the 
eaves. She knew it was early, not because the trav¬ 
eling-clock In its worn leather case on the bureau 
across the room told her so (the clock was turned 
so she couldn’t see its face), but because it was so 
still, and because she always woke early on the morn¬ 
ing of the day set for her yearly visit to her father. 

She wished she knew how early it was. A sum¬ 
mer hotel, even the service wing, slept so late. The 
sun could tell Laurel nothing. The sun rose from 
out the ocean, and of course the “ cheapest room ” 
had n’t a glimpse of the ocean. 

Laurel did n’t dare risk getting up and looking at 
the clock, for, not for anything, would she have dis¬ 
turbed her mother asleep beside her. Her mother 
had probably been up until nearly morning to finish 
her packing. No. She would simply have to wait 
for the alarm-clocks in the servants’ quarters across 
the alley-way. They usually began to go off about six 
to six-thirty. In the meanwhile she must lie very 
quietly and not joggle the bed. Cautiously she 
folded her hands beneath her head, and proceeded 
to content herself as best she could, gazing about 
with slow-moving, wide-awake eyes. 

There, opposite her, hanging from the electric- 
light fixture on the wall, was her traveling-suit care¬ 
fully arranged upon a stretcher. It was the first real 


lO 


STELLA DALLAS 


suit with separate coat and skirt that Laurel had 
ever had I Would her father like it, she wondered? 
Would he like the close little black velvet hat that 
went with it, with the bunch of red berries on the 
side? Her mother had copied the hat from a thirty- 
dollar model, which she had priced in a shop in Bos¬ 
ton. It made her look very grown up. Would her 
father like to have her look grown up ? 

Beside the suit stood Laurel’s trunk. It was a 
wardrobe trunk — a beautiful trunk. Laurel 
thought. Brand-new. It was all ready to be closed. 
Her dresses, freshly pressed and hanging in order, 
simply had to be pushed back into the empty space 
behind. The little drawers beside the dresses were 
already shut snug and tight. The drawers were 
filled. Laurel well knew, with various-colored rib¬ 
bons, bows, and sashes, to match the dresses; shoes 
and stockings; and piles of soft white underclothes 
in perfect repair. Her mother had been busy for 
a fortnight with white thread and darning-cotton. 
For a missing button or a tiny hole used to disturb 
Laurel’s father years ago. 

The beautiful trunk, and its beautiful contents, 
clashed with its present surroundings. Laurel was 
aware of it. It flashed over her, with a little stab 
of joy, that to-morrow morning when she woke up 
and glanced across the room at her trunk, it would 
be harmonizing with mahogany and plate-glass and 
a soft velvet carpet, and a glimpse through an open 
door of tiles and shining white porcelain. Too bad, 
oh, too bad, it flashed over her, with another stab 
that was n’t joy, that to-morrow morning her mother 
could n’t be waking up with her and glancing across 


STELLA DALLAS 


II 


at the trunk. Her mother did love grand rooms 
sol Her mother did love New York sol To-mor¬ 
row when Laurel woke up there would be the rum¬ 
ble of New York outside her window hundreds of 
feet below. 

Very carefully Laurel turned her head upon her 
folded hands and looked at her mother. She was n’t 
pretty in the early morning in a battered old iron 
bed, of course. No lady can be pretty with her 
mouth hanging open, and her hair all mussy and 
tousled. Laurel’s mother’s hair looked like straw, 
now — dry and dead. But when she did it up and put 
the magic net on it, it seemed to come alive. It was 
the same with the early-morning ashen look of her 
skin. It disappeared completely, along with the 
shadows, and queer greenish hollow places, and tiny 
wrinkles, when she was ready to step out of the 
mean little room. It was wonderful what Laurel’s 
mother could do with a little powder and a little 
rouge, and a bit of chamois skin. It seemed to Lau¬ 
rel there was real magic there — no pretence, as in 
her Cinderella game. 

She turned away from her mother. It wasn’t 
fair to look at a picture till it was finished. 

5 

It was fully half an hour later when Laurel gaz¬ 
ing at the ceiling became aware that her mother was 
no longer breathing out loud. She knew even with¬ 
out looking that her mother’s blue eyes were wide 
open. She could feel them staring at her! 

She turned her head towards her. Her mother 
was indeed staring at her 1 


12 


STELLA DALLAS 


“ Hello,” said Laurel, smiling tenderly. 

“ Hello,” said her mother, still staring. 

“What’s the matter? What are you. thinking 
of?” softly Laurel inquired. 

“ I was thinking what a burning shame you 
have n’t naturally curly hair! ” her mother ex¬ 
claimed. “ It makes me about sick to think of you 
down there for a whole month, with your hair hang¬ 
ing down as straight as a stick.” 

“ Oh, it looks all right.” 

“ I wish now I had had you have a Permanent. 
Some children are having it, and I don’t believe for 
a minute that it would do good strong hair like yours 
a mite of harm, the way it’s done way down at the 
ends for long curls, so I’m told. One reason I can 
keep your hair long like some of the most distin¬ 
guished children, instead of bobbing it off like an 
errand girl’s in a department store, is because I’m 
always Johnny-on-the-spot with the curling rags. 
There’s nothing worse than long, straight, Indian 
hair these days. Oh, I do wish I had had the Per¬ 
manent, but I simply could n’t afford it and your new 
trunk, too. It would be pleasant if your father gave 
you a few things you need once in a while. For 
goodness’ sakes,” she broke off, “ if your father asks 
you when you ’re down there this time, what books 
you want for Christmas, tell him you can get books 
for nothing from the Public Library, but there’s no 
public institution where you can get fur coats for 
nothing, or a wrist-watch, and all the girls you know 
— or ought to know — have fur coats now, and 
wrist-watches of their own.” 

“ I ’ll tell him,” Laurel said. “ Shan’t we get up 
pretty soon?” 


STELLA DALLAS 


13 

“Terribly anxious to get started, aren’t you?” 

“ Oh, no, I’m not anxious a bit,” Laurel denied, 
and she stuck her hands back again under her head 
as proof; “I’m in no hurry. But it’s only three 
hours to train-time, and I thought-” 

“Never mind. That’s all right. I don’t blame 
you, kiddie,” her mother said, and her eyes suddenly 
filled with tears. “ Funny,” she remarked, with her 
eyes still upon Laurel, “ how I can’t seem to remem¬ 
ber what you look like once you get away.” She 
sniffed. “ I’m going to just about die without you, 
Lollie 1 ” she exclaimed. 

“ I know it,” said Laurel calmly, staring up at 
the ceiling, but with not a sign of tears herself. 

Her mother sniffed again. “ And to think,” she 
said, “I didn’t want you once. I didn’t want you 
a bit before you were born.” Then with a sudden 
determination she threw back the bedclothes. 
“Come,” she ejaculated, “let’s do get up!” and 
she swung her feet around onto the bare floor. 

6 

She was a fat, shapeless little ball of a woman 
in her nightgown. A plain unattractive nightgown 
it was, made of a crinkly material that did n’t re¬ 
quire ironing, with a soiled blue ribbon straggling 
halfway round the neck. She pulled on a cheap cot¬ 
ton-crepe kimono over the nightgown. The kimono 
had been lavender once, but it had faded to some¬ 
what the same ashen color as her face now. She 
slipped her feet into some bedroom slippers very 
much out of repair. 

She was the sort of woman whose exterior was 



14 


STELLA DALLAS 


never slack or hasty. She was never guilty of sub¬ 
stituting a pin for a stitch where it showed, but her 
negligees and night-clothes were always in a state 
of neglect and shabbiness. Even Laurel had begun 
to observe that. The first time Laurel had ex¬ 
claimed, shocked, “ Why, mother, there’s the same 
hole in the toe of your stocking that was there yes¬ 
terday!” Mrs. Dallas had smiled. How like her 
father it was I Stephen had had the same foolish 
blind dislike for a hole, or a rip, or a missing button, 
which nobody was ever going to see. 

Wrapped round in her unlovely draperies, Mrs. 
Dallas now skuffed across the little room to the 
cheap oak bureau. 

“ Darn this thing! ” she murmured, as she fum¬ 
bled with the backboneless mirror, which always 
needed a wad of paper or a hairbrush stuck in its 
side, to hold it in position. “ My! what a sight I 
am! ” she exclaimed, when finally the contrary 
thing consented to give her back her reflection. “ I 
certainly am some beauty at seven o’clock in the 
^morning,” she laughed, and she put both her hands 
to her head, pushing down the stiff towlike mate¬ 
rial, sticking out in a wild ungainly fashion about her 
face. Then, raising her chin, and frowning a little, 
she stroked her throat once or twice, where there 
hung, flabby and inert this morning, an unmistakable 
double chin. 

It was a fitful sort of double chin. Showed much 
more at times than at others. Seemed to have pe¬ 
riods of being sulky and stubborn. Mrs. Dallas was 
always in a state of indecision as to whether the 
thing showed less with a low, loose collar, or a high. 


STELLA DALLAS 


15 

tight one. This indecision was felt only in connec¬ 
tion with daytime costumes, however, for at night 
in evening-dress she had long ago concluded that the 
lower the gown the less noticeable the superfluous 
chin. Once you got below the Dutch neck-line, Mrs. 
Dallas’s skin was as white and firm as a young girl’s. 
She had always had beautiful neck and shoulders, 
and they did n’t grow old and sallow along with her 
face. 

Mrs. Dallas believed that if a woman was clever, 
and made enough of that feature of hers which 
chanced to have remained young, whether it was 
hair, or figure, or complexion, or neck-and-shoul- 
ders, defects and blemishes would become less ob¬ 
vious. Unfortunate, of course, that convention 
deemed that her “ young ” feature could be exhib¬ 
ited only at night. Still, she told herself, she should 
be thankful that such inventions as powder and paint 
existed, corsets, and curling-irons, electric massages, 
and electric needles. For she had a horror of grow¬ 
ing old and unattractive — a horror connected with 
the memories of her own mother. 

She could recall that twenty years ago her mother 
had been gray and shapeless, her face covered with 
light brown moth-spots, wrinkles, and long hairs 
here and there — a spiritless creature, who wore 
loose, mouse-colored wrappers and flat men’s shoes. 
Stella Dallas (Stella Martin she was then) was 
ashamed to have her young men friends catch 
a glimpse of her mother when they came to 
call in the red cottage house in Cataract Village out¬ 
side the city of Milhampton. Laurel should never 
be ashamed of her mother like that, before her 


i6 


STELLA DALLAS 


young-men friends, Mrs. Dallas decided, not if a 
little thought and effort could prevent it. Besides, 
there was another reason for keeping up a young 
appearance. 

Not for eight years had she laid eyes upon her 
husband, nor he upon her, as far as she knew. It 
hardly seemed possible, for she had been to New 
York often, and the hotels where she and Laurel 
summered were very likely places for automobile 
parties to spend a day and night. Stephen might 
walk right into the office or dining-room or parlor 
any day where she chanced to be seated. If he 
should, he simply must n’t find her too changed. He 
must n’t find an old woman in place of the unques¬ 
tionable belle she had been in their set the fall his 
business took him to New York. 

The elaborate process of her mother’s dressing 
had great interest for Laurel. Sometimes she would 
watch it from the bed, and other times from a chair 
near by, sitting, bare-necked and bare-armed in her 
underclothes with the comb and brush in her hand, 
waiting for her mother to unroll the eight tight wads 
around her head, and make them into long loose 
curls. 

She had a long while to wait, for it took her 
mother a long while to dress. Laurel would pop into 
her clothes in no time, her slim pipe-stem arms and 
legs simply flashing into the right places, and her 
quick fingers buttoning and fastening with lightning 
speed. Laurel worked like a machine, when she 
dressed. Her mother worked like an artist, whose 
effects are accomplished by many fine and careful 
strokes, and many stops, standing away frequently 


STELLA DALLAS 


17 

from her work to observe it with a critical and often 
a dissatisfied eye. 

She would not be ready to apply her skill to Lau¬ 
rel until she was complete herself, except for just 
the finishing touch of her dress. When she would 
be ready for Laurel, the flabby fleshiness under the 
nightgown would have become all beautiful firm 
curves inside the flower-brocaded pink corsets; and 
the shapeless mop of tow would have become all 
beautiful firm curves too, like the hair on the wax 
busts in the show-windows of fashionable hair¬ 
dressing shops. Her eyes would have become ever 
so blue, and ever so large beneath transforming eye¬ 
brows that arched. The centers of her cheeks would 
be pink, and her lips red, and her neck and shoul¬ 
ders, bare of course without her dress, would be 
milky white, with lovely little lavender veins show¬ 
ing faintly here and there, like the guiding lines Lau¬ 
rel used sometimes when she wrote a letter, showing 
faintly through thick white note-paper. 

When Laurel moved over before the mirror and 
stood in front of her mother for her hair to be 
done, and caught the reflection of her own freckled 
face and sunburned neck and arms, bony and hard, 
and her dark hair with the forbidding bang, it 
seemed to her that the pink and whiteness above her 
was like an angel’s in comparison. 

“ When shall you begin to put rouge and powder 
on me^ mother? ” one day Laurel had asked. 

Not until nice girls your age begin to put it on,” 
her mother replied briefly, with the practicalness 
that guided all her decisions in regard to Laurel as 
to what was proper or improper, appropriate or in¬ 
appropriate. 


i8 


STELLA DALLAS 


It was because Mrs. Dallas adhered to models so 
scrupulously that Laurel’s clothes were never cheap 
or flashy in appearance. Mrs. Dallas was like cer¬ 
tain dressmakers, who know how to impart elegance 
and refinement to the clothes they make for others, 
while their own costumes are often extreme and un¬ 
pleasantly conspicuous. Mrs. Dallas wore a good 
deal of imitation jewelry herself — large imitation 
pearls around her neck, large imitation pearls in her 
ears. But Laurel never wore jewelry at all, except 
a string of tiny gold beads. 

The little Holland girl never wore jewelry at all, 
except a string of tiny gold beads. The little Hol¬ 
land girl was one of Mrs. Dallas’s models. In Mil- 
hampton the Henry Hollands were one of “ the 
four hundred ”— one of the first ten of “ the four 
hundred,” in Mrs. Dallas’s opinion. Laurel did not 
attend the same dancing-class which Stephanie Hol¬ 
land attended, but Mrs. Dallas often attended it, 
looking down from her balcony seat (to occupy 
which no ticket of admission was required) onto the 
polished floor below, studying, scrutinizing, and re¬ 
cording in as thorough and business-like a way as 
a dressmaker at a fashion-show in New York. 

7 

When Mrs. Dallas and Laurel sat down at their 
table in the big hotel dining-room an hour later. 
Laurel was all ready for her long journey to New 
York, and Mrs. Dallas all ready for her shorter one 
to Boston, where at the appointed meeting-place in 
the South Station she was to pass Laurel over as 
usual to the spectacled Miss Simpson. 


STELLA DALLAS 


19 


The hotel guests seated near Laurel and her 
mother observed their traveling clothes. One of 
them later, in the hotel lobby, approached Laurel as 
she sat, half-hidden in a high-backed armchair, wait¬ 
ing for her mother. Her neat black-enameled suit 
case stood beside her, and her silver-handled um¬ 
brella lay across her knees. 

“Are you and your mammar leaving us to-day?” 
asked the lady. 

“ / am,” Laurel replied. 

“But not your mammar? ” 

Laurel wished she wouldn’t say “mammar.” 

“No. Mother is n’t.” 

“Oh, so that’s it! You’re going alone! And 
where are you going?” 

“ To New York.” 

“To New York! How nice! To visit, I sup¬ 
pose? ” 

Laurel nodded. 

“ Let’s see. I believe I’ve heard your pappar 
lives in New York,” remarked the lady. Any refer¬ 
ence to her father always put Laurel on the defen¬ 
sive. “Doesn’t your pappar live there?” the lady 
persisted. 

“ I call him father,” said Laurel, flushing. 

“You funny child! Well, doesn’t your father 
live in New York? ” 

“ My father has business in New York which 
takes him there frequently,” Laurel replied as she 
had heard her mother reply dozens of times before. 

“ Oh, I see! And you ’re going to New York to 
visit your father. Is that it?” purred the lady. 

There were sharp claws behind that purr. Laurel 


20 


STELLA DALLAS 


knew. Also she knew that it was not customary for 
little girls to visit their fathers alone. So now she 
replied, “ No, I’m going to visit a hotel.” 

“ But you ’ll see your father, of course? ” 

It appeared quite legitimate. Laurel had long ago 
discovered, for grown-up people to ask questions of 
a child which they’d never think of asking each 
other. Therefore, she decided, it was legitimate for 
children to remain silent when they chose. Of course 
she was n’t a little child who might refuse to speak 
and not mean to be rude, but if people would keep on 
asking questions as if she were only six, she would 
keep on being silent. She was silent now. She closed 
her lips firmly, and from beneath her long bang 
stared blankly across the lobby. The lady repeated 
her question. 

“ You ’ll see your father, won’t you? ” 

Laurel continued her blank stare. Her eyes took 
on a vacant, far-away expression, as if she had sud¬ 
denly fallen to day-dreaming, and was thousands 
of miles away from the hotel lobby and the lady. 
In reality she was keenly conscious of the moment 
and the place, and was keenly suffering, too. Laurel 
did n’t like being rude. She would like to answer 
every question ever asked her. Only she could n’t 
always. People nudged, and smiled, and raised their 
eyebrows sometimes. 

“Well,” said the lady, less sweetly now, “I’m 
sure your mother will miss you, whomever you ’re 
going to see, for she doesn’t seem to have made 
many intimate friends in the hotel.” 

How unkind I How cruel! It swept over Laurel 
that she would like to make up a face at this woman 


STELLA DALLAS 


21 


— this hateful, ugly woman. (She was ugly. She 
had a complexion like dough. Beside her mother’s 
rose-petal cheeks, hers were like toadstools. Beside 
her mother’s bright hair, hers was like dull pewter.) 
Laurel glowered at the lady’s retreating back. She 
had perfectly enormous hips! 

‘‘ What was Mrs. Lamson saying, kiddie? ” asked 
Laurel’s mother a moment later bustling up to her. 

“ Nothing much.” 

“ Being nice? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Laurel brightly. Her mother was 
terribly anxious for people to be “ nice,” and Laurel 
almost as anxious that she should believe them so. 
“ She thought my new hat was ever so pretty,” she 
prevaricated smoothly. 

“ I bet she did n’t guess how little it cost,” 
shrugged Mrs. Dallas. 

“ Well, I did n’t tell her,” said Laurel. 

When Laurel kissed her mother good-bye on the 
platform at the station, there was n’t a tear in her 
eyes, although her mother’s pretty cheeks were all 
smeared with them underneath the concealing big- 
meshed white veil. The arms she put around her 
mother’s neck did n’t cling nor clutch, like the arms 
that held her so tightly, and her kiss was cool and 
brief. But in her throat there was a big lump, and 
about her mouth there was a drawn, set look that 
meant she was clenching her teeth together hard, 
as she stood by the car window, and waved and 
waved to the lovely pink-and-white figure left behind 
in the smoke. 


CHAPTER II 

1 

Laurel could always pick out her father in the 
waiting group behind the gate at the end of the 
long granolithic walk outside the train in New York, 
twenty or thirty seconds before he saw her. This 
was because her eyes were so keen and sharp, while 
her father was a little near-sighted; and because, 
too, there was a change in Laurel from year 
to year, while her father always looked the same. 

Laurel and her father were always a little formal 
and constrained with each other at first. Laurel 
never could adjust herself quickly to the fact that 
this distinguished-looking gentleman, with the close- 
shaven cheeks, little black mustache, and keen gray 
eyes, was her own father, whom, if he lived at home 
as other girls’ fathers did, she would be familiar 
enough with to climb over, and tug and pull at, per¬ 
haps. It took a little while for him, too, she imag¬ 
ined, to believe that she — freckled, long-banged, 
and black — was his. 

She seemed perfectly calm and quiet when she 
put her hand in his, and he leaned and kissed her, but 
really her heart was beating fearfully. 

Inside the taxicab on the way to the hotel, where 
Laurel and Miss Simpson were to stay. Laurel 
would sit beside Miss Simpson, and her father would 
occupy the seat opposite them. Most of the con¬ 
versation, as they rumbled along, would be between 


STELLA DALLAS 


23 

Miss Simpson and her father — about the re¬ 
cent journey, the weather in Boston, the weather 
here, unimportant subjects, with long lapses of si¬ 
lence between; and upon arriving at the hotel. Lau¬ 
rel’s father would leave them at the elevator-door, 
and go away quickly as if he were glad to escape. 

Upstairs in the luxurious three-roomed apartment 
which he had engaged for Laurel, there would be 
all sorts of surprises — dolls and elaborate toys, 
when Laurel was younger; candy and flowers, and a 
dear little fitted work-basket this time, and a pile 
of brand-new books, lying on the table beside the 
silk-shaded reading-lamp. 

Laurel’s father lived in bachelor’s apartments not 
far away from the hotel. It was easy for him to 
come in every morning and have breakfast alone 
with Laurel close beside one of the high windows 
in the private apartment, while Miss Simpson went 
downstairs to the dining-room. A waiter in black, 
who treated Laurel as if she were a princess, and 
her father as if he were a king, would roll in a table 
with a snowy cloth on it and shining china, with all 
sorts of delicious smells creeping out from beneath 
inverted silver bowls. 

It would be usually at this first breakfast alone to¬ 
gether that the real reunion between Laurel and her 
father would begin. This time, however, when her 
father left Laurel at the elevator-door, he had said 
he would return at seven-thirty, and they would 
go to dinner somewhere together, if Miss Simpson 
would pardon his stealing his little girl away the 
very first night. So on this visit Laurel’s and her 
father’s first real words of greeting took place inside 


STELLA DALLAS 


the dusky interior of the taxicab that bore them to 
the restaurant which he had selected. It was the 
first time in a whole year that they had been alone 
together. 

They sat in silence for a moment or two, after the 
door had slammed upon them. Then, “Well, here 
we are,” said Laurel’s father. 

“ Yes,” murmured Laurel. 

“ How are you. Laurel? ” he asked. 

“ All right.” 

“ What sort of a year has it been? ” 

“ All right.” 

Just the shortest, most conventional of quesfions 
— just the shortest, most non-committal of answers, 
but full of significance to them both; full of the 
promise of the dawning of the old sweet intimacy 
which never failed to steal over Laurel and her fa¬ 
ther, once they got rid of preliminaries, and to pos¬ 
sess them like sunshine a cloudless day, once it 
breaks through the mists and fogs of early morning. 

Laurel’s father sat away as far as possible from 
her and surveyed her from top to toe. The close 
little toque with the red berries gave her a mature 
look that was unfamiliar. He sighed. 

“You’re growing up, Lollie,” he said gently. 

Whenever Laurel’s father called her Lollie, it al¬ 
ways brought the vision of her mother sharply be¬ 
fore her eyes. Her mother and father were the only 
two people in the world who had ever called her the 
silly little baby-name of Lollie — “ Lolliepops ” 
once it had been. She shoved the vision away as soon 
as possible. It hurt somehow. Her mother would 
have so loved the lights outside the taxicab window, 


STELLA DALLAS 


and the taxicab too. She and her mother seldom 
afforded a taxicab. 

“It *s my new hat that makes me look grown up,” 
said Laurel with never a reference to the creator of 
it. Laurel never mentioned her mother to her fa¬ 
ther. Some fine instinct within her kept her lips as 
sealed as his. “ Don’t you like it? ” she inquired, a 
little wistfully, for her father was still gazing at her 
with a sort of abstracted look which she did n’t com¬ 
prehend. 

“ What? The hat? Oh, yes. I like the hat very 
much,” he assured her. “ It’s very nice, and your 
suit too. I like your suit. Laurel. Only you ’re grow¬ 
ing up, and I don’t know that I like that. I don’t 
suppose I shall dare kiss you many years longer in 
the station before people,” he laughed. “ Young 
ladies don’t like being kissed in public, I’m told.” 

Laurel laughed, too — a nervous, pleased little 
laugh, and moved a little nearer. 

“ I’ve finished all the reading,” she confided to 
him proudly. 

“ You don’t mean all of it! ” 

“Yes, every book you put on the list,” she an¬ 
nounced, eyes shining. 

“ Good work, Laurel.” 

“Oh, it wasn’t work. I love to read.” 

“ Do you really? ” 

“ I did n’t used to so much. It just seemed to 
come this year — liking it so, I mean.” She turned 
her face towards him. “ When you read a book 
you like a lot,” she went on, “ do you try to stop be¬ 
tween sentences and look around and think it over, 
like eating a piece of candy just as slowly as you 
can, so it will last longer? ” 


26 


STELLA DALLAS 


“ It used to be like that,” he smiled, and he 
reached over and put his hand over Laurel’s. “ Fm 
glad you like to read, Laurel,” he said, “ for I like 
to, too. I Ve hoped you’d like to read when you 
grew up.” 

Laurel looked down at her father’s hand, and then 
quickly out of the window, as if not to frighten 
it away. 

“ Is n’t it funny how many things there are that 
you like that I like too?” she said softly. “ I was 
counting them up coming down on the train.” 

“Are there? Tell me. What?” 

“ Well — there’s books, and woods, and camping, 
and dogs, and horses, and fall better than spring, 
and dark meat better than light, and roast beef bet¬ 
ter than chicken, and salad better than dessert, and 
— and — ” 

“Yes, go on,” her father encouraged. 

“ Well, picture galleries, and Madame Butterfly, 
and that Mrs. Morrison, and — ” 

“That Mrs. Morrison! ” her father interrupted. 

“ Yes. Don’t you remember last year one after¬ 
noon at tea ? ” 

“ I supposed you’d forgotten all about Mrs. 
Morrison.” 

“ I have n’t,” said Laurel. 

“ You saw her for only about a half an hour.” 

“ I know it. But you know what you said before¬ 
hand? ” 

“What did Isay?” 

“ Why, for me to notice her, and listen to her nice 
voice, for she was somebody you’d like me to grow 
up to be like.” 


STELLA DALLAS 


127 


“ Did I say that?^’ 

Laurel nodded. 

“ And you did really like her? ” 

“ Oh, yes! She was ever so nice to me! She 
gave me a little silver pencil out of her bag.” 

“ And she has invited you to spend a few days 
with her during this visit of yours, at her summer 
home on Long Island.” 

Laurel was silent a moment. 

“ Will you be there? ” she inquired. 

“ I’m sorry. I can’t. I’ve got to be away. That 
is why she has invited you, so you won’t be lonely 
here in New York. I must be in Chicago for a few 
days next week on business. I don’t like missing 
even a day of your visit, but it’s necessary.” 

“ I would n’t mind just staying at the hotel with 
Miss Simpson.” 

“ Why, I thought you said you liked Mrs. Mor¬ 
rison.” 

“I do — only — I’m used to hotels. I’m not 
lonely in them. I don’t believe I should like visiting. 
H as Mrs. Morrison any children?” 

“ Oh, yes. Several. You ’ll have a splendid 
time.” 

“ I think I’d rather stay at the hotel,” said Lau¬ 
rel. 

“ Well, we ’ll see. Don’t have to decide to-night. 
It’s only for a few days anyhow. We ’re going to 
have our two weeks together in the woods just the 
same.” 


/28 


STELLA DALLAS 


2 

Stephen Dallas always tried to arrange his af¬ 
fairs so as to be able to take Laurel off alone with 
him for two weeks somewhere. The month she 
spent with him was usually August or September, 
and he usually took her Into the woods. 

Stephen had an Idea that the farther away from 
people and conventionalities he could get Laurel, 
the more susceptible she would be to him, and to his 
suggestions. However, It seemed sometimes absurd 
even to hope to be much of a factor In forming the 
child’s tastes and Inclinations. He had only thirty 
short days with her each year, and he knew that dur¬ 
ing the long lapses between her visits, the Influence 
she lived under was not conducive to the growth of 
the kind of seeds he planted. 

When Laurel was a little girl, seven or eight years 
old, often Stephen would ask her what form of 
amusement she would prefer for an afternoon, and 
almost invariably she replied, when they were In 
New York, “Oh, the merry-go-round, or the mon¬ 
keys at the Zoo.” He did n’t always give her the 
merry-go-round, nor the monkeys either. He was 
forever being torn between his Inclination to Indulge 
her slightest whim or wish, and thereby win her ap¬ 
proval, and a desire to remould those whims and 
wishes. 

When Laurel was ten years old, Stephen began 
taking her to picture galleries. In an attempt to In- 
istlll in her some appreciation of beauty In art. Chil¬ 
dren like colored pictures, he argued. Why not give 
vthem good ones? He used to take her to hear good 


STELLA DALLAS 


29 

music too. Some of the symphonies, he told her, 
were just fairy tales told by violins, harps, French 
horns, and tambourines. Before a concert he took 
great pains to explain to Laurel the story which the 
various instruments were going to tell her. She 
would listen to his explanation fast enough, but 
more likely than not would fall asleep during the 
symphony itself. 

When she was eleven years old, Stephen arranged 
to have Laurel visit him during the winter season, 
and took her for the first time to grand opera; also 
he took her, that same year, to several Shakesper- 
ian plays; to a beautifully staged classic for chil¬ 
dren; to a lovely fairy-like performance of dancing; 
all the while trying to place before her beauty in 
whatever form. When they were in the woods to¬ 
gether, following a trail, helping the guides to make 
camp, cutting balsam boughs, gathering firewood, 
sitting for long hours in a boat on some lovely lake, 
listening for bird-calls, watching for a deer to steal 
down to the water’s edge to drink, it was beauty in 
its natural form, then, that Stephen Dallas was 
placing before Laurel. He himself bought the 
clothes that Laurel wore on these trips of theirs 
into the woods. He took the keenest delight in 
selecting the rough little flannel shirts, the khaki 
trousers, and stout boots, visiting sporting-shop 
after sporting-shop before he was satisfied. 

“ I never saw so devoted a father as you, Stephen 
Dallas,” one of his women friends said to him one 
day, during one of Laurel’s visits. He had been 
refusing all his invitations. 

Stephen Dallas had smiled and shrugged in reply. 


STELLA DALLAS 


30 

Most men, he told himself, were n’t obliged to cram 
a year’s fatherhood into one short month. They 
could spread it along. And most fathers, or many 
anyhow, in guiding their children were not obliged 
to exert their strength against another pair of oars, 
constantly pulling in another direction. 

When Laurel came to visit her father for the first 
time he used every device and scheme he could think 
of to make her want to come again. It was always 
a little like that. Surprising, he said to himself, that 
he was so anxious for her to want to come again. 
He would think it more normal, wrapped up as he 
was in his business, and dead as was all desire in 
connection with the mistaken marriage he had made 
during the early years of his career in Milhampton, 
If he had wished to forget and bury everything re¬ 
lated to it. Let other people forget and bury it too. 
If Laurel had been a boy who would grow up to 
bear his name, he might understand his hopes and 
ambitions for the child. But a girl — a solemn¬ 
eyed, long-banged little girl! He was only forty. 
His life was full of demands, of interests of the 
keenest sort, of friends, too, the best In the world. 
Yet the pleasure that he felt at any expression of 
affection from Laurel could make his eyes grow 
misty. And lately — last year, and the year before 
— a choking wave of pride would sweep over him 
now and then, as he observed her, or listened to 
some of her quiet comments. 

To hear her exclaim that she loved reading — 
the sort of reading he had prescribed for her — had 
obliged him to swallow once or twice before trusting 
himself to speak. And picture galleries I He had 



STELLA DALLAS 


3 ^ 

thought her utterly bored by them. She was a po¬ 
lite little creature. She had never said she didn’t 
like them, but after the first half-hour or so in a 
gallery, she usually made inquiry as to how much 
longer they were going to stay. 

“I didn’t know you liked picture galleries. Lau¬ 
rel,” he said to her later, seated at a little table be¬ 
side a trickling fountain with goldfish and twinkling 
lights — blue and pink and yellow — shining in its 
depths, and tinkling Hawaiian music sounding from 
somewhere in the distance. “ You never said you 
did.” 

“ I did n’t know it until lately,” said Laurel. ” It 
came to me all in a flash. You know how liking 
things does come in a flash sometimes.” 

“ No. Tell me.” 

He was fearfully afraid she would n’t. She was 
like the gray-tailed squirrels in the park in some 
ways, at times ready to be friendly and intimate, and 
at other times shy of him, and as timid as a chip¬ 
munk. 

“Well, the first time I knew I liked the woods,” 
— Ah ! one of her trustful moods — “ was n’t when 
I was up there in them, but right in a city street, 
looking into an art-store window at a picture of a 
trail just like lots of trails we’ve tramped. It flashed 
over me right there on the crowded city sidewalk, * I 
just love the woods! ’ And last winter our teacher 
took our class at school to an art gallery one after¬ 
noon, and when I got the first queer smell, and heard 
the first echo-y sounds that go with art galleries, it 
came over me what fun we^d had picking out our fa¬ 
vorite pictures in art galleries here in New York, and 


STELLA DALLAS 


32 

going afterwards to get hot chocolate somewhere, 
and all of a sudden it flashed over me, ‘ Why, I just 
love art galleries I ’ ” 

“ And ‘ Madame Butterfly ’ ? ” 

“ Yes, the same way,” she told him. “ I thought 
I’d forgotten all about it, except the fat woman who 
sat in front of us, and how she had n’t gotten the 
powder on even, on the back of her neck; but one 
day last summer the orchestra at the hotel where 
mother — where we — were staying, played a piece 
that I knew I’d heard before, and I peeked over the 
violinist’s shoulder, and found out what it was. And 
all of a sudden I saw that lovely Japanese lady in 
the beautiful white satin kimono on her porch with 
the pink sky beyond, singing about her baby. The 
orchestra played it lots of times after that. I asked 
them to, and it’s my favorite piece of music now.” 

Laurel’s father looked away from her. Some of 
his seeds, then, had taken root and were growing. 
Even among thorns I He must plant and plant and 
plant, then, while it was still the planting season. 

3 

Later that same night, in Laurel’s room at the 
hotel, Stephen sat down beside her by the reading- 
lamp, and glanced through the pile of books he had 
selected for her. “ Idyls of the King ” was one of 
the books. 

“ What do you say we save this one to read out 
loud in the woods? ” he inquired. 

Laurel, sunk in a soft deep armchair, the fitted 
work-basket in her lap, the box of candy open on the 
table near by, did n’t hear him apparently. 



STELLA DALLAS 


33 

“ Are there any ‘ cheapest rooms ’ in this hotel? ” 
she asked, gazing speculatively at the old-rose dra¬ 
peries at the high windows, and at the expanse of 
lace beyond. 

“Don’t you like these rooms, Laurel?” 

“Oh, yes! Yes! Only — ” 

The crystal clock on the mahogany mantel had 
just struck ten-thirty. The Wednesday night “ mov¬ 
ies” at the summer hotel would be finishing about 
now. Laurel’s mother, all dressed up in her pretty 
clothes, would be going upstairs to the horrid little 
bedroom, very soon, alone. 

“ Only what? ” her father asked. 

“ Oh, nothing. I’ve been wondering what it 
would look like beside this one — that’s all.” 

That was n’t all. Her father felt sure it was n’t 
all. But many of her thoughts he was unable to fol¬ 
low to their source. A faint suspicion disturbed him. 
Surely the allowance he sent to Laurel’s mother 
was sufficient. He could vouch that as long as a 
sure three hundred and fifty dollars was coming to 
Stella every month, she would live well wherever she 
was. She delighted in living well. 

“ Why should you be thinking about cheap 
rooms? ” he asked. 

“ No reason,” Laurel replied shortly. 

She was not going to tell him anyhow. That was 
clear. Useless to coax her. 

Before he left her for the night, he said to her, 
“ I really think you’d like it at Mrs. Morrison’s, 
Laurel.” 

“ Do you want me to go? ” 

“ Well, I want you to know Mrs. Morrison,” he 


STELLA DALLAS 


34 

replied. “ I feel that when you are with me I must 
give you the best of everything I can, Laurel, and 
when Mrs. Morrison invited you to stay with her 
I was very happy to give you five whole days of life 
in her home.” 

“ If it’s just for me, then, I think I’d rather stay 
here, if you don’t mind.” 

Stephen looked down at a book on the table and 
opened it. He was standing up all ready to go. 

“ I don’t mind,” he said, gazing at the printed 
page, but not seeing it, “ only,” he went on, “ I 
should feel sorry, I suppose, if you did n’t like some 
little present I’d picked out for you which I thought 
very nice. And so, too, I suppose I shall feel a little 
disappointed if you don’t wish to go to Mrs. Morri¬ 
son’s.” He closed the book. “ But of course I don’t 
really mind. You ’re the one to be pleased.” 

He did mind. He minded awfully. He always 
minded when his voice was low and serious, like 
that. 

“ I ’ll go,” said Laurel. 

“ Oh, you don’t have to, my dear.” 

“ I’d like to go,” she assured him brightly, which 
was true. Laurel would like to do anything to please 
her father. 


CHAPTER III 

1 

Laurel was to go to Mrs. Morrison’s the follow¬ 
ing Monday. She dreaded the visit. She was sus¬ 
picious of women, and especially suspicious of 
mothers. One of the reasons Laurel always looked 
forward with such joy to the month with her father 
was that there never were any slights — never any 
fear of any slights. His presence seemed to prevent 
the possibility of slights. Everybody to whom he 
introduced her in his fine proud manner as “ my 
daughter Laurel,” treated her with the same kind¬ 
ness — almost deference — with which they treated 
him. Mrs. Morrison had been kindness itself to her 
a year ago, at tea in the hotel, but her father had 
been there then. Ladies had a way of being kind 
when men were about. Laurel had discovered. It 
was being left alone with Mrs. Morrison that she 
dreaded. 

Besides, Laurel knew very little about the eti¬ 
quette of private homes. She was familiar with the 
ways and customs of a hotel. Knew the proper man¬ 
ner to assume towards waiters, and porters, and 
clerks; knew, too, the proper fee to pay bellboys 
and chambermaids, if she asked them to do anything 
for her, which she seldom did, for dimes and quar¬ 
ters were never freely squandered by Laurel and 
her mother on ice-water or extra blankets for cool 
nights. But she was uncertain about uhe proper 


STELLA DALLAS 


36 

manner to assume towards servants in a private 
home. In the winter-time she and her mother lived 
in an apartment hotel. How many servants were 
there usually, anyhow, and what did you call them, 
and what fee did you give them? And when, and 
how, and for what? Or did n’t you give them a fee 
at all? And just how, she wondered, should you 
dress in a private home? Did a girl of thirteen 
change three times a day, for instance, and put on 
an organdie for dinner? And who did her hair? 
Miss Simpson, it appeared, was not to accompany 
Laurel to Mrs. Morrison’s. Miss Simpson was n’t 
very good at hair. She never even attempted curls. 
But she could get snarls out, and brush, and divide 
fairly well, under direction. Laurel was helpless 
without somebody. 

Laurel mentioned none of her perplexities to her 
father. If she did he might wonder why it was she 
knew so little about homes. It might reflect upon 
her mother. For at the private school she attended 
in the winter-time, she often heard intimate friends 
talking about spending nights with each other. Lau¬ 
rel had no such intimate friends at the school. That 
she hadn’t was one of the many galling failures 
of Mrs. Dallas’s ambitions for her daughter. Lau¬ 
rel was not unaware of it. No. Her father should 
know nothing of her ignorance. 

On many topics Laurel was as frank and open 
with her father as any artless child. But she had 
her reservations. She had great expanses of thought 
and experience she never let him glimpse at. She 
never mentioned her mother’s name to him. She 
made as little reference as possible even to her life 


STELLA DALLAS 


37 

with her mother. By the time she was thirteen this 
silence had become like a wall between Laurel and 
her father. Stephen was aware of it. It loomed 
high and blank between them, and shut much of 
Laurel away from him. But it also shut much of 
Stella, too. 

Once the mention of Stella’s name, even as 
“ mother ” on Laurel’s lips, had hurt Stephen. The 
years had cured him of the hurt, but still he thought 
it wiser to let the barrier remain. For one reason — 
it was kinder to Stella. Laurel’s silence made it 
easier for him never to criticize Stella and, there¬ 
fore, appear to influence the child against her 
mother. There were many things to criticize, and if 
they were brought to his attention in detail, he would 
be sure to wish to alter them. This he could not do 
without interference with Stella. Interference with 
Stella would open up new issues, and lead to un¬ 
pleasant complications. And after all Laurel was 
Stella’s child. Stella had been necessary to Laurel. 
He could never have been a nurse to a little girl of 
six. Had he been determined to control Laurel’s 
bringing-up, then he ought to have been willing to 
have endured Stella. He had made his decision. He 
had never regretted it. 

He took Laurel down to Mrs. Morrison’s in his 
automobile. She talked very little as the car sped 
over the smooth roads, through pretty settlement 
after pretty settlement. When finally Stephen an¬ 
nounced, “The next town’s ours,” Laurel mur¬ 
mured miserably, “You’ll surely be back for me 
Saturday, won’t you? ” 

Stephen laughed. “ Surely,” he said. “ Why, 


STELLA DALLAS 


3B 

you M think I was putting you in an institution.” 
And a little later he sang out cheerfully, “ Here we 
are at the prison-gates! ” and turned the car in be¬ 
tween two cement posts, partly ivy-covered, and up 
a short curving drive. 

The house was cement, and partly ivy-covered, 
too, like the posts. It was set low, seemed to cling 
to the ground, and the close-cropped lawn ran right 
up to long French windows on either side of the 
front door. 

The French windows were open, and from out of 
one of them stepped Mrs. Morrison. She waved 
her hand at Stephen and Laurel, and called out in 
a high pretty voice, “ Hello! ” then walked rapidly 
towards the approaching car to meet it. 

Laurel noticed that she was dressed in an ordi¬ 
nary white skirt and outing waist, and wore tennis 
shoes. She was at the door of the car when it 
stopped, and, before Laurel’s father had a chance 
to open it, she had stretched out her arm in front of 
him — ignoring him completely — grasped one of 
Laurel’s hands, and was saying in the lovely voice 
Laurel remembered, “ Hello, Laurel.” She said 
“Laurel,” not “Laurrul” — like most people. Her 
voice was like a bell. “ I’m ever so glad to see you. 
I’ve been waiting and waiting for you. Get out, 
dear. Let her out, Stephen.” She had n’t paid any 
attention to Stephen till then. “Your trunk has 
come,” she said, still addressing Laurel, still ignoring 
her father — or almost, for she flung him only the 
briefest little “ Hello,” as he stepped out of the 
automobile beside her — “ and for the last hour I’ve 
been thinking you yourself were coming every time I 
heard a horn blowing outside our drive.” 



STELLA DALLAS 


39 


As Laurel stepped off the running-board, Mrs. 
Morrison put her arm around her and kissed her 
lightly on the cheek. Afterwards she left her arm 
there in a casual sort of way as if she forgot to re¬ 
move it. 

“ Let’s come into the house this way,” she sug¬ 
gested, and gently drew Laurel across the lawn to¬ 
wards the French windows. “ I’ve tea and cakes 
all ready,” she said in a low tone, as if it was a con¬ 
fidence not meant for Stephen’s ears. “ And cinna¬ 
mon toast.” She gave Laurel’s shoulders the tiniest 
little bit of squeeze. 

Arm in arm with Mrs. Morrison, Laurel stepped 
across the low threshold of the French window into 
a big, generous, library-sort of room, with a grand 
piano at one end, and books all around the dark 
walls. 

It was as easy as that, getting into the house, and 
all of the way down Laurel had been making herself 
miserable wondering just how it would be accom¬ 
plished— whether there would be a butler as in 
most movies, to answer the bell, or a maid; and if 
the butler or the maid took your suitcase, like bell¬ 
boys in hotels, or if you just held onto it yourself. 
Laurel’s father had told her that he must run di¬ 
rectly back to New York, after leaving her at Mrs. 
Morrison’s, to catch his train. She had supposed 
that he had meant he couldn’t even see her across 
the threshold. But no. He followed her into the 
big room, carrying her suitcase himself, and showed 
no sign of hurrying away. 

There was an Irish setter in the room, lying down 
by a big chair as Laurel entered it with Mrs. Mor¬ 
rison. 


40 


STELLA DALLAS 


“ This is Laurel, Michael,” called out Mrs. Mor¬ 
rison to the dog. “ Come and tell her how glad we 
are to see her.” 

The dog got up, stretched, and wagged his tail 
languidly, then, with a sudden brightening of ex¬ 
pression, a sudden tightening of muscles he barked 
twice, and shoved past Mrs. Morrison and Laurel 
towards Stephen, making joyous little whining 
sounds as he fell to lavishing damp dog-kisses on the 
hand that held Laurel’s suitcase. 

“ There’s no doubt about how glad he is to see 
your father, is there?” laughed Mrs. Morrison. 
“ Michael adores your father. Laurel, as we all do 
around here,” she added carelessly. “ Come, we ’ll 
run upstairs, and wash our hands. Give me the suit¬ 
case, Stephen.” 

“ Laurel will take the suitcase,” said Stephen. 
“ It’s not heavy.” 

“ Yes, I ’ll take it,” said Laurel. 

“ All right. Come along. And, oh, Stephen,” 
Mrs. Morrison called back over her shoulder, in 
that sort of singing voice of hers, “ just light the hot 
water, will you please? ” 

There was a tea-table, with a white cloth near one 
of the windows, with shining silver on it, and shin¬ 
ing tea-cups and a plate or two of snowy sandwiches 
and a basket of frosted cakes. “ We ’ll be down in 
a minute.” 


2 

Upstairs, inside the most exquisite little bath¬ 
room Laurel had ever stepped foot in — creamy 
tiles clear to the ceiling, creamy floor, creamy fit- 


STELLA DALLAS 


41 

tings, not a scrap of nickel In sight — everything all 
smooth shining porcelain, like the Inside of a beauti¬ 
ful china cup, Laurel thought — Mrs. Morrison 
said, Here’s the washcloth, and here’s the soap, 
and here’s the towel. Use them, and then come 
into this room. It’s mine. I’m going to have you 
in with me. And take off your things. Put them on 
the bed next to the wall — your bed — then come 
downstairs. And don’t be long. I ’ll hurry down 
ahead and get your father started on his tea. He’s 
got to go right back to town.” And she left Laurel. 

Very carefully Laurel followed her directions, 
gazing wonderingly about her as she did so, examin¬ 
ing various details with investigating nose and finger¬ 
tips; sniffing the soap; ever so cautiously opening the 
door of the medicine chest; touching with a gentle 
forefinger the silk window-hangings in the bedroom; 
touching with the same gentle forefinger its ivory- 
colored walls; the shade on the lamp on the table 
between the beds. It was made of real filet I So, 
too, were the curious little pillows on the beds. 
(Laurel had never seen tiny pillows like that on 
grown-up beds.) So, too, was the bureau-scarf, and 
the tidy on the back of the big winged-chair by the 
window. All real filet! And just the simplest little 
piece of filet cost six-fifty In the neckwear depart¬ 
ment ! 

Standing in the center of the bedroom, Laurel 
drew In a deep breath, and gazed about her. What 
a lovely bedroom it was! Yellowish — like pale 
sunshine. She decided that it was lovelier even than 
her present luxurious apartment at the hotel. It 
was lovelier than any apartment In any hotel she had 


42 


STELLA DALLAS 


ever caught a glimpse of through half-open doors, 
on her way to and from elevators. 

After she had taken off her hat and coat and laid 
them on the bed next to the wall as directed {her 
bed, she would be sleeping in it to-night!) she 
opened the door, and went out into the upper hall. 
She stole noiselessly down the broad staircase — 
there was a tall, slender, light-mahogany grand¬ 
father’s clock on the landing, and a high window 
with pink-and-white petunias making it bright in a 
window-box outside — and noiselessly approached 
the door of the big room where she had left her 
father. 

There were others in the room now besides her 
father and Mrs. Morrison. She could tell from the 
voices. She stopped when she reached the thresh¬ 
old. Nobody saw her, nobody heard her, and she 
had a moment to gaze unobserved at the scene be¬ 
fore her. 

It was like a scene at the “ movies,” with all those 
books, and the piano, and the comfortable chairs, 
and the big portrait hanging over the fireplace, and 
the pretty lady behind the steaming tea-kettle, and 
the dog, and the boys (there were three boys in the 
room. One of them, the littlest one, was seated in 
her father’s lap) —only it was real! There were 
real bindings on the books, real reading in them, 
there was real tea in the tea-pot. The people were 
real, and their feelings for each other were real, 
too. She, standing on the outside, was the only un¬ 
real thing in this home scene. 

She looked at her father. Suddenly the room 
faded, disappeared, and a close-up of his face 



STELLA DALLAS 


43 

dawned on the screen before her, as it were. Why, 
her father was gazing at the lady behind the tea¬ 
kettle, as if — as if— I Laurel had seen too many 
close-ups of faces not to recognize that look! She 
drew in her breath sharply. It flashed over Laurel 
that perhaps this man was n’t really her father after 
all I She stirred, moved a foot. 

Mrs. Morrison glanced over her shoulder. 

“ Oh! come here, Laurel,” she exclaimed at sight 
of her, and stretched out her arm, and kept it 
stretched out until Laurel had stepped within its 
circle. 

“This is Laurel, boys,” she said briefly. Then, 
still holding Laurel, not giving her even a chance 
to go through the agony of a series of curtsies, she 
went on, “These are your new friends, Laurel. 
Cornelius, over there by the piano, is the oldest. 
‘ Con ’ we call him for short. And Dane comes next. 
‘ Great Dane ’ they call him at school. But I call him 
little Dane. And the little boy in your father’s lap 
is Frederick. ‘ Rick’ is his nickname. He’s the baby 
— five years old now. We haven’t any little girl for 
you. Laurel,” she sighed. How lucky! No girls! 
Boys weren’t half as cruel. 

“And now,” Mrs. Morrison broke off, “ I wonder 
would you pass this cup of tea I’m making to your 
father? And, Con dear, will you pass the sand¬ 
wiches? Get down, Rickie, and run and get your 
rabbit and bring it in and show it to Laurel. And, 
Dane, take Michael out. Michael,” she explained to 
Laurel, “is not fond of Mercedes’s society, Mer¬ 
cedes being the rabbit,” she smiled. 

They were all busy in no time — all but Mrs. 


STELLA DALLAS 


44 

Morrison and Stephen, each rushing about on some 
errand or other. There wasn’t a chance for pause 
or embarrassment. The same rare insight and un¬ 
derstanding which made Helen Morrison’s dinner¬ 
parties such a success was quite as reliable with chil¬ 
dren, or with servants, or with the factory girls at 
the settlement-house in which she was interested. 
Not only did everybody with whom Helen Morrison 
worked and played get on beautifully with her, but 
under her gentle management they got on beautifully 
with one another, too. And yet she seemed to make 
no effort at adjusting herself to the various ages, 
groups, and classes with which she came In contact. 
That was why she was so successful with Laurel. It 
was her apparent unawareness that she was saying 
or doing the diplomatic thing that broke through the 
barrier of silence and reserve which Laurel hid be¬ 
hind whenever she met strangers. 

The women whom Laurel met when visiting her 
father never by any chance, even Indirectly, referred 
to her mother. It would have been a “break” if 
they had. Laurel knew that. But Mrs. Morrison 
made such a break. Mrs. Morrison referred to her 
mother, and the very first night, too, scarcely an 
hour after her father had said good-bye. 

3 

They were upstairs together unpacking. No 
■chambermaid, no lady’s-maid assisted at the task. 
In fact Laurel had begun to wonder If any servants 
existed in this household. Mrs. Morrison alone 
helped her, carefully hanging dress after dress In a 
^closet near by, and exclaiming over each one, how 


STELLA DALLAS 


45 

pretty she thought it was. What a lovely color! 
Like jonquils one; like violets another; like a mea¬ 
dow spotted with tiny daisies, a certain English 
print. 

It was when she was hanging up the last dress in 
the closet that she remarked, ever so naturally, “ I 
think your mother has beautiful taste. Laurel.” 

Laurel looked up quickly. She had replied so far 
by only necessary yes-thank-yous and no-thank- 
yous to Mrs. Morrison, and if-you-pleases — that 
sort of thing, but now she exclaimed, “ My mother 
has the most beautiful taste in the world!” 

She didn’t know she was going to say just that, 
nor that her words were going to rush out in such 
an unfamiliar fashion. She blushed. 

But Mrs. Morrison didn’t seem to think her re¬ 
ply odd. She didn’t even look at her. She said: 

“ I’ve always wanted a little girl. It’s such fun 
to dress them. I can see your mother has had great 
fun getting all your pretty things to match and 
blend.” 

Later when Laurel asked her which dress she 
should put on for dinner, Mrs. Morrison replied, 
“ Why, I don’t know, I’m sure. Which dress do you 
think your mother would have you put on?” 

She kept on referring to her mother casually like 
that right along. “ Perhaps,” thought Laurel, “ she 
doesn’t know there’s any reason not to.” And yet, 
being a friend of her father’s, how could she help 
but know that her mother and father didn’t live to¬ 
gether like other people. Perhaps she didn’t know 
why they didn’t live together, just as Laurel herseif 
didn’t know why. Whatever the explanation, Mrs. 


STELLA DALLAS 


46 

Morrison’s frank and open recognition of her 
mother as a human being, and a human being, too, 
not unlike her lovely self, warmed Laurel, thawed 
out her mistrust and fear. 

Before twenty-four hours had passed Laurel was 
worshiping Mrs. Morrison with that admiring kind 
of worship that a young girl, not quite a child, and 
yet not quite a woman, often feels for some stranger 
who stops and smiles. 


CHAPTER IV 

1 

She didn’t talk very much at first. She was too 
engrossed observing unfamiliar surroundings and 
watching Mrs. Morrison. It was as interesting as 
reading a new book almost. The ways and habits 
of a private home were very curious. For instance, 
you were introduced to the servants. A maid In spic- 
and-span gray-and-white did appear finally. 

“ Hannah,” Mrs. Morrison said to her familiarly,. 
** this is our guest. Miss Laurel. Laurel, Hannah 
is the one to ask If there’s anything you want. She 
is a fairy. You’ve only to make a wish out loud be¬ 
fore her, and it comes true.” 

And the ways and habits of a lady In a private 
home were curious, too — at least Mrs. Morrison’s 
were curious. Marveling, Laurel observed the light¬ 
ning speed with which she dressed. It seemed to 
Laurel that she was a fairy, too, for she had only 
to wish herself ready for dinner, or breakfast, or 
lunch, and she was ready Inside of ten minutes. 

It was fascinating to watch her do her hair. She 
would take out four or five hairpins from It, shake 
her head till the hair fell soft to her shoulders, brush 
the shining mass hastily a minute, twist It up, and 
stick the four or five hairpins back again, hardly 
looking Into the mirror at all. 

Laurel had thought Mrs. Morrison lovely to look 
at the first time she saw her a year ago, at the ho- 


STELLA DALLAS 


48 

tel, but ladies were often lovely to look at when they 
were dressed up. The amazing thing about Mrs. 
Morrison was that she was lovely to look at always, 
even in the early morning, even before she got up I 
She was n’t young. At least Laurel did n’t think she 
was young. She was old enough to be Con’s mother, 
and Con was older than Laurel. There were be¬ 
sides just a few gray hairs. You didn’t see them till 
she let her hair down. 

She had beautiful hair — dark, almost black. At 
night beneath the strong light of the silk-shaded 
lamp by the piano, it was like the breast of a dark- 
feathered pigeon in the sunshine — iridescent. She 
had long slender fingers — very white, and long 
slender arms, and a long slender neck. The line of 
her neck in profile had just the same curve from her 
throat to the tip of her chin (which was usually 
lifted) as the lady’s in the moon. And she did her 
hair low, just like the lady in the moon, and it 
fluffed the same way, too, about her brow and ears, 
for she wore no net. She was like moonlight in lots 
of ways. Laurel concluded. Almost no color at all 
in her cheeks. And the dress she wore the first eve¬ 
ning was pale yellow. And she didn’t wear a single 
ornament to brighten it up. 

Occupying the same room with Mrs. Morrison, it 
took much less time than otherwise for Laurel’s 
shyness to wear away. Perhaps Mrs. Morrison was 
aware with what amazing rapidity the homely proc¬ 
esses of dressing build up an intimacy. But, whether 
or not her motive was to win her way into Laurel’s 
confidence the more quickly, or simply to take every 
precaution in guarding the child against homesick- 


STELLA DALLAS 


49 

ness, twice the number of hours spent in the draw¬ 
ing-room or garden would not have been sufficient 
to establish the degree of familiarity which made it 
possible for Laurel to put into words many of her 
questions and wonderings before she had been three 
days a guest of Mrs. Morrison. 

“Have you a Permanent?” she asked bluntly the 
third morning as she sat gazing at Mrs. Morrison, 
seated before the altar-like dressing-table with noth¬ 
ing on it but two candlesticks and an old silver box^ 
and four or five tortoise-shell hairpins. 

“Yes,” Mrs. Morrison replied, smiling, “but not 
the kind you mean. I was born with mine.” 

Still gazing. Laurel inquired a moment later^ 
“Don’t you ever use rouge, or an eyebrow pencil?” 
“No” 

“Why not?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Why do you ask. Laurel?” 

“ No reason. I was only wondering.” Then after 
a pause Laurel added, “ I think you’d be lovely with 
pink cheeks.” 

“I would be nicer, wouldn’t I?” she agreed, and 
she stuck in the last hairpin, got up, gathered to¬ 
gether a few soft muslin things from a drawer near 
by (she put on clean clothes every morning: her 
laundry bill must be terrific), and, wrapped round in 
a lemon-colored china-silk kimono, passed into one 
of the little twin bathrooms adjoining, and closed 
the door. 

Laurel heard the click of enamel handles being 
turned, the violent gush of a stream of water in the 
marble shower-bath, and a second or two later, or 
so it seemed, Mrs. Morrison reappeared, as fresh 
as a pond-lily in her crisp lingerie. 


50 


STELLA DALLAS 


Laurel inquired of her, “If you think you’d be 
nicer with pink cheeks, then why don’t you make 
them pink?” 

“ Oh, it takes such a lot of time! ” laughed Mrs. 
Morrison. “And then, besides,” she added, “I 
would always be getting them spoiled. I like to be 
outdoors so much, digging in the garden, riding 
horseback, romping with the boys in all sorts of 
weather. If I did use rouge. Laurel,” she went on 
more seriously, “ and an eyebrow pencil, as you sug¬ 
gested, I should want to do it exquisitely, like an art¬ 
ist, so that no one’s sense of beauty could possibly 
be offended.” 

“Offended?” 

“Yes. To some people paint and powder on the 
human face is distasteful.” 

“Is it?” 

“ Like paint and powder on the petals of a flower, 
I suppose.” 

“Oh!” 

There was a long pause. Laurel broke it at last. 

“ Is that why you haven’t a string of pearls?” 

“Is what why. Laurel?” 

“ Because pearls on your neck would be to some 
people like pearls on flowers?” 

“Oh, no,” Helen Morrison replied, managing 
not even to smile. “ I haven’t a string of pearls be¬ 
cause they’re so expensive.” 

“Imitation pearls aren’t very expensive.” 

“Oh, imitation!” 

Laurel considered. Her mother had often told 
her that her pearls and imitation diamond bar-pin 
would pass for the genuine articles anywhere. 


STELLA DALLAS 


51 

“They look just like the real ones,” she told Mrs. 
Morrison. 

“ Oh, no. Laurel, not to a person who knows 
pearls. They lack inner beauty, just as a wax figure 
lacks soul. To the really discerning they’re as life¬ 
less and unbeautiful as that.” Then, with a sudden 
happy inspiration, as she thought, Helen Morri¬ 
son added, “Your mother has trimmed several of 
your pretty dresses with narrow filet lace, but there 
isn’t an inch of imitation filet.” 

No, of course not, because imitation filet “never 
fooled anybody,” Laurel’s mother had often told 
her. In fact, she had said, and only a short fortnight 
ago, that there wasn’t anything a woman could 
make more show with, at present, than a lot of 
splashy real lace, or anything that could kill her so¬ 
cially as surely as the imitation stuff. 

Laurel wondered if to the really discerning her 
mother’s imitation pearls were like imitation filet. 

2 

The next day Laurel asked Mrs. Morrison if she 
had ever seen her mother. Her mother’s name by 
then was mentioned with perfect ease between them. 

“No, I never have. Laurel,” said Mrs. Morri¬ 
son. “Tell me about her.” They were walking in 
the' garden. “ Is she like you?” 

“Oh, no,” said Laurel. “She’s not the least like 
me. She has n’t a single freckle. And her hair is yel¬ 
low. She was born with it yellow, like you with your 
Permanent.” Which was true. Mrs. Dallas had not 
tampered with the color of her hair as yet. “ Her 
eyes,” Laurel went on, “are blue — the color of 


STELLA DALLAS 


5^ 

that little blue pitcher you said was Delft, that you 
used one morning at breakfast. And her skin is like 
the cream in it.” 

“ She must be lovely.” 

“Oh, she is, she is,” flashed Laurel. 

“Haven’t you her picture?” 

“No. Not here.” After a pause Laurel added 
gravely, “I never bring her picture to New York 
when I come to see my father.” 

It was the first reference she had made to the 
relation that existed between her mother and father. 
But Mrs. Morrison made as casual a reply to it, as 
if it had been a frequent topic of conversation be¬ 
tween them. 

“ Of course you don’t. I did n’t think for a min¬ 
ute. Naturally it’s kinder not to.” 

Oh, how easy it was to talk to Mrs. Morrison I 
Questions Laurel had long wanted to know the an¬ 
swers to crowded to her lips. “Why are my mother 
and father different from other mothers and fa¬ 
thers? Why don’t they live together? Why aren’t 
people nice to my mother? And why are they nice 
to my father?” But she didn’t allow one of them 
to escape. Not yet. Nor did Mrs. Morrison allow 
a question to escape either. They simply walked on 
in silence till they came to a turn in the garden path 
where some late pansies were blooming. 

“Let’s pick some,” said Mrs. Morrison. 

“ Let’s,” said Laurel, and they leaned down to¬ 
gether over the low-growing flowers. 

Laurel’s heart was beating fast. She could feel it. 
Between herself and this lovely lady the gossamer¬ 
like bond of sympathy, as delicate at first as a thread 


STELLA DALLAS 


53 

of a spider’s web, had become now as strong as the 
silk cable pearls are strung on. It would bear actual 
spoken words about her father’s and mother’s sep¬ 
aration ! 

“ Is there anything in the world softer than the 
petal of a pansy 1” remarked Mrs. Morrison, press¬ 
ing one of the flowers against her lips, and gently 
drawing it across them. 

Laurel laid a flower against her lips, too, and, 
closing her eyes, likewise tested its texture. 

“The end of a horse’s nose is as soft,” she said 
contemplatively, “ and,” she went on, eyes still 
closed, “ the back of a little tiny baby’s head, where 
they’ll let you kiss it.” 

Mrs. Morrison broke into a laugh. 

“Dear delightful Laurel! That’s so! That’s 
so!” And suddenly she took hold of one of Lau¬ 
rel’s hands and drew the back of that, too, across 
her lips, and kissed it. 

That playful little kiss of Helen Morrison’s on 
the back of Laurel’s hand made Laurel’s world 
whirl round her giddily for a moment. No one had 
ever kissed her on the hand before! It was a caress 
entirely different from an ordinary kiss upon the 
lips. She felt exalted, like a young knight in armor 
before his lady. She wished she dared kneel on the 
ground and kiss the hem of Mrs. Morrison’s dress! 

3 

Laurel wondered a great deal about Mrs. Morri¬ 
son’s husband, and finally one day concluded to 
inquire about him. 

“Is your husband away on business?” she began 
politely. 


54 STELLA DALLAS 

“Why, no. Didn’t you know? Didn’t your 
father tell you?” 

Laurel shook her head. “No, father has told me 
nothing.” 

“ He is not living. Laurel,” gently Mrs. Morrison 
announced. 

“Oh,” said Laurel. “Of course,” she went on, 
“I knew he wasn’t really away on business, because 
of the drawers in the chiffonier being perfectly 
empty, and the closet beside yours, too, where you 
hung my things. But I did n’t see any pictures of him 
around, so I thought perhaps you were separated.” 

“The portrait in the big gold frame in the 
living-room is a picture of him. Laurel, and that’s 
a copy of it, in the silver frame on my dressing-ta¬ 
ble.” 

“Is he your husband?” exclaimed Laurel. 

She had studied the portrait. The man in the 
portrait looked like a grandfather! He had long 
drooping mustaches, almost white, and the sockets 
of his eyes hung down like the eyes of a hunting- 
hound, Laurel had seen in the Maine woods once. 

“Yes. Why?” 

“He looks too old for you!^* 

“Does he? Well, he was older, but, oh, ever so 
kind, and the father of my dear boys, and,” she add¬ 
ed after a pause, “ the father of my little girl, too.” 

“Your little girl?” 

“Yes, Laurel, my only little girl. She died, before 
she was old enough to walk without holding tight 
onto one of my fingers.” 

“ What was her name? ” 

“ Carol.” 


STELLA DALLAS 


55 


“ How old would she be? ’’ 

“About as old as you, I think.” 

“Did she have light hair, or dark?” 

“Dark.” 

“ Curly? ” 

“ No, straight. Oh, how we did try to make it 
curl,” laughed Mrs. Morrison. 

“ But I guess she did n’t have freckles,” said 
Laurel. 

“ Not then. But I think she would have had, 
when she grew up. She liked the sun, and out-of- 
doors. I’d have loved to have had her have ever 
so freckly a nose I ” 

“ Do you like freckles? ” Laurel exclaimed, wide- 
eyed, and amazed. 

As easily as that, they wandered into the holy of 
holies of Helen Morrison’s heart, and wandered 
out again. 


4 

When Mrs. Morrison had helped Laurel unpack 
her trunk on the first afternoon, she had been doubt¬ 
ful as to how her athletic young sons would get 
along with the little spic-and-span, bandbox girl she 
rather guessed Laurel to be. There were no stout 
boots, nor rough clothes of any sort among Laurel’s 
things. There was a bathing-suit, but it was an 
elaborate fragile affair made of black satin, trimmed 
with orange. Excellent for exhibition on the beach, 
but it did n’t look very appropriate for use in a cer¬ 
tain deep black swimming-hole which the boys had 
discovered between two barnacled rocks. However, 
she need n’t have worried. 


STELLA DALLAS 


S6 

The first night after dinner Con had inquired of 
Laurel, “Do you ride?” 

It seemed there was a stable back of the house. 

“ I ride some'' 

“ Can you swim? ”• Dane had asked. 

“ I swim a little." 

To Mrs. Morrison’s amazement, to the boys’ 
amazement, too — and to their admiration besides 
— Laurel’s “ some ” and “ little ” proved a great 
deal. 

Next morning dressed in an old knickerbocker 
suit of Dane’s (Laurel had never needed her riding- 
clothes in New York before), after she had ridden 
four or five times around the paddock back of the 
stable, she had called out, “Does he jump?” and 
the next time around she had taken one of the hur¬ 
dles with perfect ease and familiarity. 

It was the same with swimming. It did n’t matter 
if her suit was satin, the swimming-hole didn’t 
daunt her. She could dive better than Con! Laurel 
had taken swimming-lessons ever since she could re¬ 
member. She had taken riding-lessons since she was 
eight. She had taken lessons in every sport which 
her mother considered fashionable and in which in¬ 
structions could be bought. 

“ The funny thing is,” said Con to Laurel the 
second day, “ you don’t play tennis.” 

But in games which required partners. Laurel had 
not had much experience. Solitaire sports were her 
specialty. However, she was pretty good at golf, 
she told Con. There had usually been a professional 
at the links connected with the summer hotels which 
her mother patronized. 


STELLA DALLAS 


57 

“We’ll try it,” said Con, “and I’ll teach you 
tennis.” 

He would n’t acknowledge that he liked Laurel. 
None of the boys went as far as that. “ But she is n’t 
silly, and she is n’t afraid of things I ” he told his 
mother. 

“ They get along together beautifully, Stephen,” 
said Helen Morrison to Laurel’s father the night 
he came to take Laurel away. 

It was after dinner. They were sitting in the gar¬ 
den terrace just outside the big room, where the 
portrait hung. Through the open windows, uncur¬ 
tained towards the terrace, they could see Laurel 
seated with the two older of the boys at a table, 
busy over some sort of game with cards, with Mi¬ 
chael stretched out comfortably at their feet. 

“ I’ve enjoyed every moment of her,” Helen went 
on, gazing fondly at the group inside the room. 
“ Only,” and there was a sudden change in her 
voice, “ it’s brought home to me afresh what I’ve 
missed — all these years. Oh, we’ve had such fun 
together! ” she broke off gaily. “ Girls’ sort of 
fun,” she laughed; “ doing each other’s hair, for in¬ 
stance— trying on each other’s hats — that sort of 
thing. Boys — men, could n’t understand. And her 
questions I Don’t you love little girls’ blunt ques¬ 
tions? Darling things, I think, like awkward little 
colts and calves — oh. Laurel’s a dear child, Ste¬ 
phen. I’ve kept pretending she was mine,” she ex¬ 
claimed lightly. 

“ Oh, Helen I if she only were I ’’ 

There wasn’t a trace of lightness in Stephen’s 

exclamation. 


STELLA DALLAS 


58 

“ I could n’t have equipped her any better for the 
present-day activities of a young girl’s life than her 
own mother has done, Stephen,” said Helen. 
“ There does n’t appear to be a muscle or a bone 
in her body that has been neglected.” 

“I’m thinking about her soul,” Stephen re¬ 
marked. 

“ It has n’t lost any of its beauty yet, Stephen,” 
Helen assured him. “ She’s as unspoiled a little 
girl as I know — so pleased (so genuinely pleased, 
too — you can tell by the shine in her eyes) at the 
least kindness or attention. And the combination in 
her of sophistication and innocence is a source of 
constant surprise to me — a source of constant joy, 
too. Oh, you need n’t be afraid. So far the unde- 
• sirable influences have n’t hurt Laurel a bit.” 

“ But she’s getting older, Helen. Her youth and 
innocence cannot protect her always.” 

“Oh, I know, I know,” agreed Helen; “I’ve 
thought of that, too. It’s a pity. I’m so sorry, 
Stephen. Let her stay with me often — whenever 
you can. See them in there — all so happy. Don’t 
take her to a hotel when she comes for the visits. 
Bring her to me here, or to the town house, if we’ve 
moved in.” 


5 

Driving back to New York that night over the 
almost deserted road (it was late. “Very late for 
thirteen,” Mrs. Morrison had laughed, as she had 
tucked Laurel into a warm coat of her own), Laurel , 
sat beside her father like a little stone image for 
the first ten minutes. 



STELLA DALLAS 


59 

There was something exciting about the beautiful 
coat that wrapped her round so close. It was a lit¬ 
tle as if Mrs. Morrison herself held her, wrapped 
her round in her kindness. Every once in a while 
Laurel would rub her cheek against the soft fur 
of the high collar. It felt like Mrs. Morrison’s hair 
the day after it had been washed, and she had let 
Laurel brush it, and twist it up, and stick the hair¬ 
pins in. It smelled like it, too ■— fresh, clean like a 
flower-garden after rain. Laurel drew in great deep 
breaths of the soft brown sable. “ It’s Mrs. Morri¬ 
son,” she pretended with all the sentimentality of 
thirteen. 

Gazing up into the sky from out of the fur col¬ 
lar, Laurel could see the full round moon above her. 
“ She’s following me to New York,” she made-be- 
lieve. “ She’s going to follow me wherever I go, 
always and always, and I can look up at her and 
see her whenever the moon is full, and tell her how 
lovely I think she is, and try to be like her. I shan’t 
care so much if people are horrid after this.” 

“ Well, Laurel,” interrupted Stephen, “ how did 
you get along? ” 

“ All right.” 

“ Was it very terrible? ” 

“ Not very.” 

“ How did you like the boys? ' 

“ All right.” 

“ And how did you like Mrs. Morrison? ” 

Gazing up at the moon. Laurel replied fervently, 
“ I think Mrs. Morrison is the loveliest lady I ever 
knew.” 

“ Do you? ” her father exclaimed; “ oh, do you> 
Lollie, dear?” 


6o STELLA DALLAS 

Lollie I Suddenly Laurel stiffened Inside the long 
coat. Lollie I 

“ I mean,” she added, with the exaltation all gone 
out of her voice, ‘‘ I mean next to — next to — ” It 
had to be. She could n’t avoid the word — “ next 
to my mother.” 

All the rest of the way back to the hotel Laurel 
did n’t once glance up at the moon. How could she 
— oh, how could she have become a part of the 
picture on the screen, while her mother was still In 
the audience, out there, In the dark, looking on. 


CHAPTER V 

1 

After Mrs. Dallas had said good-bye to Laurel, 
she retraced her steps along the narrow platform 
beside the train, and immediately sought refuge in 
the ladies’ public dressing-room in the station. 
Standing in front of the long horizontal mirror with 
the row of wash-basins beneath, she removed her hat 
and veil, and leaning forward drew one of the ba¬ 
sins full of steaming water. With her bare hands 
she bathed her smarting eyes and smeared cheeks. 
The hot water was as soothing as hot soup to a sore 
throat. She dried her face and hands on a piece 
of crepe paper from a roll near by. Afterwards, 
opening a little red leather case which she always 
carried with her, she laid it before her on the wash- 
stand, first blowing into it, once or twice, to remove 
a little of the loose pink powder that had shaken 
out of its container, and was as thick as dust in a 
carpet-sweeper. 

Briskly, in a business-like fashion, Mrs. Dallas 
proceeded to remedy the damage wrought by her 
tears, working dexterously with various little sticks 
and tubes, without any attempt at concealment, ap¬ 
parently without the slightest self-consciousness, al¬ 
though just beside her a prim, school-teacherish- 
looking little woman, middle-aged, observed her op¬ 
erations with interest. Just when her cheeks pre¬ 
sented their customary velvety appearance, her eyes 


62 


STELLA DALLAS 


suddenly welled up again with tears. She closed the 
lids tight. No use. The tears oozed out, streaked 
her cheeks again. 

“ Oh, darn it! ” she whispered into the hollow of 
her hands as she pressed her fingers hard against 
her eyeballs. “ Oh, Lollie, Lollie, darn it, darn it 1 ” 

Twice she was forced to repeat her operations, 
and at last gave up the struggle for perfection, sat¬ 
isfying herself with a bit of powder on her nose, 
trusting that the white veil would suffice to conceal 
her. 

She had planned to spend an hour or two in the 
shops, take a sandwich and a cup of coffee in a can¬ 
dy-shop a little later, and go to a movie afterwards. 
It was wholly by accident that she ran across Al¬ 
fred Munn. 

The route she selected to the shops carried her 
through the outskirts of the wholesale merchandise 
district of the city. Alfred Munn’s present busi¬ 
ness had something to do with leather or hides — 
or was it cotton — something of the sort. She ran 
across Alfred Munn (or rather he ran across her — 
he saw her before she saw him) at a restaurant. 

It had occurred to Stella as she walked away from 
the station that a cup of coffee would probably help 
to brace her up better than anything else, and, as 
it was really time for lunch anyhow, she decided 
to drop into a certain restaurant she knew about, 
instead of the candy-shop farther uptown. It was 
a restaurant where Alfred Munn had taken Laurel 
and her to lunch one day two years ago. She had n’t 
seen him since. As she entered it, she observed that 
men predominated. 


STELLA DALLAS 63 

She hastened to the dressing-room at the rear. 
Stella Dallas felt as uncomfortable in the restaurant 
with her face all red and splotchy, as the school- 
teacherish little woman would have felt in her stock¬ 
ing-feet. It was with no thought of any man in par¬ 
ticular that she set to work again to make herself 
presentable, now that she had herself under better 
control^ or, at least, with no serious thought of any 
man in particular. She was always playing with 
the possibility that some old admirer might run 
across her path at any moment, and always taking 
necessary precautions. 

Prepared as her cheeks may have been, Stella was 
taken by surprise when somebody leaned across the 
little table which she had selected beside the wall- 
mirrors and drawled in a masculine voice, “ Weill ” 

She knew it was Alfred Munn before she looked 
up. Nobody else in the world could say “ Well,” 
like that. All sorts of interesting implications were 
packed into the single exclamation. 

She glanced up and replied briefly, her blue eyes 
sparkling at him, “ Hello! ” 

She did n’t like Ed Munn. Stephen had been 
right. He was cheap. It showed now that he 
was n’t dressed in his riding-clothes any more. But 
even if she did n’t like him very much, she could n’t 
be horrid to him. Stella Dallas could n’t be horrid 
to anybody whose eyes flattered her like that! 

“ What are you doing here? ” he asked in a kind 
of caressing tone, as irresistible to the lonely Stella 
as food by whomever offered if she were hungry. 

‘‘ I’m waiting for you/ ” her voice caressed back 
at him. Oh, a little harmless flirting was the one 
thing she needed to restore her wilted spirits I 


STELLA DALLAS 


64 

Alfred Munn smiled at her, showing a row of 
little crooked yellow teeth. His face crackled up 
into a hundred pleased wrinkles. Attention from 
the opposite sex was as welcome to him as it was to 
Stella. 

He drew out the chair opposite Stella, thinking, 
as he did so, ‘‘ What have I got on for this after¬ 
noon anyhow? Only two appointments; I can cancel 
*em.’’ What he said was, as he sat down, “ Where’s 
the offspring? ” 

Stella thought, “ Dear me! How thrilling! He’s 
going to stay!” But out loud she said, “Just 
shipped her to New York.” 

“You alone?” Alfred Munn exclaimed. “Un¬ 
attached? No string tied to you? ” 

Stella, pouting a little, looking pathetic on pur¬ 
pose, nodded. “ All alone. No string. Not a 
thread.” 

Alfred Munn drew in a deep breath. Let it out 
audibly. 

“ My! This is my lucky day, I guess,” he ejacu¬ 
lated. “We ’re going to have lunch together — you 
and I, and go to a show afterwards. Did you know 
it?” 

Stella, casting down her eyes, and toying with the 
silver, shook her head. No. She did n’t know it. 

“ Well,” masterfully, “ you know it now. Here, 
pass me that menu.” 

She obeyed with exaggerated docility. “ Have 
your own way. I’m helpless when you ’re around. 
Do with me as you wish,” her manner implied. 

It pleased Alfred Munn. He summoned a waiter 
with an arrogant motion of his hand, tossed the 


STELLA DALLAS 


65 

menu aside, as wholly beneath his notice, and frown- 
ingly ordered cocktails — this was before prohibi¬ 
tion — oysters, and soup. Then he leaned across the 
table and suddenly became all soft suavity. The con¬ 
trast was effective. 

“ How ’ve you been? ” he asked. 

“ Oh, pretty well,” Stella purred. Any one could 
make Stella purr who stroked her like that. 

“ How are things going? ” he inquired In his ter¬ 
ribly intimate manner. 

“ Oh, pretty well, I guess,” she purred again, and 
glanced up, her big Delft-blue eyes gazing straight 
into Alfred Munn’s little pig-like spots of bright¬ 
ness, rimmed round with the puffy lids. 

“ I don’t care,” Stella thought to herself in de¬ 
fense of the things she was allowing her bold eyes 
to imply to Alfred Munn. “ It’s only for to-day, 
and I’m perfectly aware of what he Is — dissi¬ 
pated, rotten old thing, probably. Does n’t hurt me 
any If he Is. I’m beyond hurting now. He’s better 
than nobody.” 

Stella had almost forgotten what a cocktail tasted 
like. How It did bring back the good old happy 
days, when everybody admired and flattered, just 
as Alfred Munn was doing now. For he was doing 
just that to Stella — over-doing It a little. Well, 
she could stand a little over-doing In that line. It 
had been so long since any man had found her at¬ 
tractive ! Or, at least, since any man had told her 
so. She had begun to fear that age had got a grip 
on her at last which she could n’t loosen, however 
much she strained. Men hated old women. Alfred 
Munn restored her self-confidence wonderfully. He 


66 


STELLA DALLAS 


found her pleasing. He found her desirable. He 
told her the very sight of her made him feel young 
again. Asked her how in the world she did it. How 
she managed to keep her wonderful peaches-and- 
cream appearance. She did n’t look to him a day 
over twenty-five! 

“ Oh,” thought Stella, feeling all warm and com¬ 
forted inside, “ if only he could see me in an eve¬ 
ning gown! ” 

As she preceded him out of the restaurant she was 
as pleased with the present-moment excitement, the 
present-moment attentions, as a young girl of six¬ 
teen on the way to her first matinee with an admir¬ 
ing suitor. Her pleasure was almost as innocent too. 

2 

Alfred Munn selected for the afternoon’s en¬ 
tertainment a popular musical farce. Stella adored 
a musical farce with all the bold gay costumes. The 
seats he bought were aisle seats — the best in the 
house, three rows from the front. As Stella settled 
herself for the two hours and a half of pleasure in 
store for her, she was keenly conscious of her near¬ 
ness to the stage, to the orchestra. How good it did 
seem to be right down in the midst of things again! 
When the curtain rolled up on the first act amidst 
a loud fanfare of trumpets, which Stella could feel 
tingle inside her, she was filled with gratitude to 
Alfred Munn. Why, she calculated, already his 
kindness to her had cost him something like fifteen 
dollars — twenty possibly. How much were cock¬ 
tails and wines now, anyhow, and Porterhouse 
steaks? She mustn’t be disappointing to him. She 


STELLA DALLAS 67 

mustn’t edge away from Alfred Munn’s overlap, 
ping arm and shoulder. She must remember her 
age. Nineteen can afford to be as stand-offish as 
it chooses, but not thirty-nine. Besides, in one way 
it was gratifying to Stella that Alfred Munn wanted 
to sit so close. She had been afraid of late that 
there was nothing but tiny wrinkles and double 
chins left of her. But there was — there was! Al¬ 
fred Munn knew women. Alfred Munn made Stella 
feel that there was lots else left. 

She talked and laughed, eyes shining, and cheeks 
hot and flushed beneath the powder. Occasionally 
Laurel’s serious face, crowned with the unfamiliar 
toque with the berries on one side, interrupted, 
shoved itself between her and the stage, between 
her and Alfred Munn. 

The toque made her look frightfully like a young 
lady. She was growing up. No doubt about that. 
Stella had n’t seen her cry since — she could n’t re¬ 
member since when. Funny kid. Just got silent and 
horribly quiet instead of letting the tears of a year 
or two ago well up in her eyes and spill over. Of 
late she, Stella, was the one who did the crying for 
the two of them. But she must n’t get teary, here^ 
now, for heaven’s sake! 

Laurel would be about at New London now, 
Stella calculated. New Haven, Bridgeport later. 
New York pretty soon, walking up the long grano¬ 
lithic walk, with the bits of mica in it, sparkling like 
tiny stars beneath the white artificial light; looking 
for Stephen; seeing him; greeting him; sitting in a 
taxicab beside him. They always took a taxicab. 

Queer, thought Stella, how the very sight of her 


68 


STELLA DALLAS 


present escort used to irritate Stephen. It would 
be interesting to Alfred Munn, she guessed, and flat¬ 
tering to him, too, if he had a notion how much he 
used to be discussed between Stephen and herself. 
Stephen was always making such queer mistakes 
about her little affairs, picking out somebody she 
really did n’t care a straw about, like Alfred Munn, 
for instance, to get stuffy over, and remaining un¬ 
disturbed by the attentions from men who really in¬ 
terested her. Alfred Munn, indeed! A riding- 
teacher! That was what he had been, in Milhamp- 
ton seven years ago. The smartest women in town 
took lessons of him. So did Stella. And the smart¬ 
est women in town were keen about him, or pretend¬ 
ed to be. Naturally they were n’t any of them seri¬ 
ously keen about Alfred Munn. The other women’s 
husbands understood. But Stephen would n’t. It 
was ridiculous, absurd. Stella told Stephen so doz¬ 
ens and dozens of times. But he would persist in 
making a mountain out of a molehill. 

That was how Mrs. Holland described Stephen’s 
attitude. There was no woman in Milhampton more 
the fashion than Mrs. Holland at that time. Stella 
had been immensely pleased by her friendship. 
Every word she uttered was to Stella like the wis¬ 
dom of an oracle. 

“Husbands need a lot of training, my dear,” she 
had told Stella after a burst of confidences from 
Stella one afternoon. “ Don’t let yourself become a 
doormat. Husbands don’t respect doormats, in the 
long run. Teach him that you can look at another 
man without wanting to elope with him. And get 
him used to the idea that you are n’t blind to every 


STELLA DALLAS 


69 

other masculine creature in the world but himself. 
Such an attitude keeps them lovers, makes them 
alert, attentive, my dear.” 

But it did n’t seem to keep Stephen a lover. It 
did n’t make Stephen alert and attentive. It worked 
just the other way with him. 

3 

These reflections did not possess Stella in the 
theater. It was later, alone on the train, returning 
to her beach hotel that she glanced into her past. 
She did n’t allow herself to do so frequently. It 
did n’t make her any happier. Things had been so 
rosy, so promising ten years ago — so far beyond 
her most extravagant girlhood dreams. And now — 
now! Resolutely she turned her thoughts to other 
things. She was to meet Alfred Munn again the fol¬ 
lowing Saturday for lunch and another matinee. 
What should she wear? The sudden necessity of a 
new early-fall hat gave her a little thrill of delight. 

There was nothing in the world Stella enjoyed 
more than a morning spent in Boston at the expen¬ 
sive uptown shops, pricing and trying on hats, fol¬ 
lowed by an afternoon in the downtown department 
stores buying buckram, wire, velvet, feathers, orna¬ 
ments, flowers, and what-not, and the long inspiring 
day afterwards shut up in her room moulding with 
her clever fingers a copy of some little gem that a 
far-away artist in Paris had conceived. 

When Stella said good-bye to Laurel, her plan to 
spend two hours in the shops had not been an ex¬ 
citing prospect to her. It was stupid to shop if you 
had nothing you had to buy. The chance meeting 


STELLA DALLAS 


70 

with Alfred Munn provided Stella with the neces¬ 
sary incentive to start the machinery of her creative 
genius going. She would have to have a new dress, 
too. Perhaps she could pick up some summer silk 
thing marked down, and pep it up with some black 
bead trimming, at present on an old chiffon evening 
gown of hers she scarcely ever wore. Bead trimming 
was being worn again this fall. Possibly it would be 
a good idea to overhaul her entire wardrobe im¬ 
mediately, even if it was early in the season. Men 
liked variety, and it looked as if Alfred Munn meant 
to see her rather often during Laurel’s absence. 

When he had put her aboard her train, he had 
.told her that if she did n’t object to leaving the sea¬ 
shore for the city frequently he was going to keep 
her from getting lonely, if she’d let him, while the 
kid was away. 

She wished he would n’t call Laurel “ the kid ” 
and the “ offspring.” She wished his linen collar 
had n’t been grimy round the top edge. She wished 
he had n’t chanced to omit shaving that morning. 
A man who shaved every morning without refer¬ 
ence to the day’s programme, and put on a clean 
collar without reference to the old one, was one of 
Stella’s tests of a gentleman. Alfred Munn never 
was guilty of any such offenses when he was the 
vogue in Milhampton. Yes, yes, Stephen was right. 
Second-rate — that was the term he used to apply 
to Alfred Munn. Well, she didn’t care. It didn’t 
rob orchestra seats at the most popular shows in 
town of their attraction for Stella, or luncheon-ta¬ 
bles in the most popular restaurant in town of their 
luxury and joy. Alfred Munn was going to take 


STELLA DALLAS 


71 

her for lunch next Saturday to the newest and most 
expensive hotel in the city. 

4 

Stella spent that evening packing her trunks 
(there remained two old-fashioned hump-backed 
affairs), and again it was early morning before she 
lay down in the battered white iron bed to go to 
sleep. 

Stella never stayed on at the expensive summer 
resorts after Laurel went. Fifteen miles nearer Bos¬ 
ton, along a sandy beach, there was a stretch of 
board-walk, with the ocean on one side, and on the 
other, a row of cheap amusement places. Behind 
this row of amusement places there was a nest of 
lodging-houses. By occupying a room in one of these 
houses, and taking her meals outside, Stella could 
save enough money over what it cost her to live at 
the expensive summer hotel, to buy several Perma¬ 
nents for Laurel, and a wrist-watch, and a fur coat, 
too, if Stephen still persisted in books. 

You’d think, perhaps, you wouldn’t have to 
economize on three hundred and fifty dollars a 
month, if there was only yourself and a child to take 
care of. But gracious, try it! Try it with a little 
queen like Laurel to bring up and educate, and give 
half a chance to. When a twelfth of your yearly 
income went to the private school your little queen 
attended, for five days a week; and two-twelfths to 
a decent hotel roof to put over her head in the sum¬ 
mer; and several other twelfths for a decent roof to 
put over her head in the winter (Laurel couldn’t 
live in a tenement), and a big chunk was eaten out 


72 


STELLA DALLAS 


of another twelfth by riding-tickets, at the rate of 
fifty dollars for twenty rides, and completely gob¬ 
bled up by private dancing-lessons, and private golf 
and swimming lessons, and heaven knows what not; 
I tell you what, you have to stretch every single 
penny you have left to clothe the child properly, to 
say nothing of yourself, and your own rags. 

“ I suppose forty-two hundred dollars a year 
sounds plenty enough to Stephen,” Stella said to her 
old friend Effie McDavitt. “ But Stephen and I have 
probably got different ideas about how the child 
should be brought up. Well, I ’ll never ask him for 
any more. I ’ll never go grovelling to Stephen Dal¬ 
las for money as long as I live! I ’ll tell you that I 
No, sir-ee! I’ve got some pride, even though he has 
acted as if I had n’t any feelings.” 

The boarding-houses at Belcher’s Beach, as the 
amusement boulevard was called, were not attrac¬ 
tive. The people who patronized them were not 
attractive either. The women were loud-voiced and 
loud-mannered, and spent a good deal of time walk¬ 
ing to and from the beach, in bathrobes and canvas 
sandals; and the masculine element, if one existed, 
was likely to be found sitting in his shirt-sleeves on 
the boarding-house porch, ready to make remarks to 
the robed ladies as they came trooping up the steps 
munching peanuts or popcorn cakes. 

Stella did not confide this particular economy of 
hers to Laurel. Laurel must n’t know that her 
mother mixed up with such society. Stella did n’t in 
fact mix up with it, but Laurel must n’t know that 
her mother even slept under the same roof with 
people of that sort. 


STELLA DALLAS 


73 

Laurel, at thirteen, was not a prolific letter-writer, 
but whatever messages she did send Stella she di¬ 
rected to the summer hotel, where she supposed her 
mother was to remain. These were forwarded by 
the clerk at the hotel, according to Stella’s instruc¬ 
tions, to Milhampton, care of a certain Effie Mc- 
Davitt. Stella did n’t object to Effie’s knowing about 
the cheap lodging-house — poor worn-out, down-at- 
the-heel Effie. Effie was the only one of her girlhood 
friends whom Stella had n’t managed to lose. She 
had tried to lose Effie. Had succeeded for a while, 
too, during the height of her social success in Mil¬ 
hampton. But Effie had n’t stayed lost. Effie was the 
sort of woman whom you can grind your heel on in 
the dirt and it won’t kill her loyalty. Like a worm. 
Cut her feelings of friendship for you in two, and 
the parts will still wriggle. 

Of course Stella might have gone back to the little 
red cottage house outside Milhampton during Lau¬ 
rel’s absence and stayed with her father, if she could 
have endured the eccentricities of his old age and the 
lack of any attempt at a self-respecting existence. 
(He let the hens come right into the kitchen now, 
and he’d dragged his miserable bed in there, too — 
all rags, and no sheets.) And Stella could endure 
much to save a little money, but the danger of dis¬ 
covery was great. Ever since her marriage Stella 
had been struggling to cover up her early connec¬ 
tions with the little red cottage house. She had an 
idea she had succeeded fairly well, too. 

At Belcher’s Beach Stella never met anybody 
whom she knew, nor who knew her. It was only fif¬ 
teen miles away from the big summer hotel where 


STELLA DALLAS 


74 

she ana Laurel had spent the season, but it was an en¬ 
tirely different world. The guests from the big sum¬ 
mer hotel never left the automobile highway, a half 
a mile inland, to seek out Belcher’s Beach. There 
was another amusement boulevard of bigger propor¬ 
tions and of less tawdry appearance a few miles far¬ 
ther on. 

This was n’t the first time Stella had successfully 
hidden herself at Belcher’s Beach, during Laurel’s 
absence. She had tested its advantages for some 
three or four years now. It had advantages. For 
one thing, it was near enough to Boston so that when 
the “ dirt-commonness of the hole ” got too unbear¬ 
able she could dress up in her best clothes and es¬ 
cape to the Boylston Street shops without the price 
of the ticket hurting too much. 

It was cheaper than living in Boston itself. Take 
just the food, for instance. Stella had always liked 
hot frankforts embedded in a soft biscuit, slimy with 
mustard. There were several night-lunch-carts at 
Belcher’s Beach. At Belcher’s Beach it was not 
conspicuous, in the least, for a lady to buy a meal 
at the door of one of the night-lunch-carts, and carry 
it away, hot, in a damp brown paper, under her arm. 

It was not conspicuous to return from Boston at 
a late hour with Ed Munn after one of his grand 
parties. It was just as well, Stella supposed, not to 
be seen with Ed Munn too much, after all the silly 
talk there had been about him and her in Milhamp- 
ton years ago. Even if she could have afforded to 
stay on at the expensive hotel, she would have been 
obliged to have foregone too many parties with Ed. 
There were some compensations, and, ostrich-wise, 


STELLA DALLAS 75 

she stuck her head in the sand of Belcher’s Beach 
and proceeded to enjoy them. 

One late Saturday night Ed Munn, who had seen 
Stella decently inside the front door of the boarding¬ 
house at Belcher’s Beach, after one of his parties 
in town, had asked her with an insinuating smile, 
glancing towards the stairs, “ Sure you can unlock 
your door alone?” 

Stella had n’t taken offense. Ed was like that. 

“ Of course I can, you goose.” She flashed back. 
“ Do I look feeble? ” 

You can just bet she didn’t let any masculine es¬ 
cort trail up any inside stairs behind her! Some 
women in the boarding-house did 1 

Too bad Ed had that common streak in him. 
Some men would know when and where it was good 
taste to spring a joke of that sort. 

Stella was blissfully unaware, as she climbed the 
stairs alone to her room that night, that at the same 
moment, a touring car, with two excited women in 
its rear seat, was slipping smoothly away from un¬ 
der the arc light that hung on the tall pole outside 
Stella’s boarding-house. 

The automobile had stopped under the light for 
only a moment. The chauffeur had wanted to find out 
how much gasoline he had. It was unfortunate for 
Stella that the car had n’t stopped longer. The two 
occupants in the back of the car had seen Alfred 
Munn follow Stella Dallas into the boarding-house, 
but they had n’t seen him come out 1 

One of the women in the back of the car was Mrs. 
'Henry Holland. The other was Mrs. Kay Bird. 
They both lived in Milhampton in the winter. Mrs. 


STELLA DALLAS 


76 

Kay Bird occupied rooms directly opposite Stella 
in the same apartment hotel. 

“It was she! I can swear to it!” said Mrs. 
Henry Holland, as she clutched the arm of her com¬ 
panion. 

“ It was he. I know him anywhere! ” said Mrs. 
Kay Bird, as she clutched back. 

“ Only ten more days,” said Stella, half an hour 
later as she knelt in the dark by her bed. “ Gosh! 
how I miss you, Lollie.” 


CHAPTER iVI 

1 

The red cottage house where Stella had lived as 
a young girl, and until she married Stephen Dallas, 
was located in an outlying district of Milhampton. 
The district was known as Cataract Village. The 
little settlement of houses was named after the Cat¬ 
aract Mills, and the mills were named after a fall of 
water hidden inside them somewhere, over which 
they crouched like some great vampire and sucked 
the strength that made their wheels go round. 

Cataract Village was the home of the Cataract 
Mill employees. Stella’s father had worked in the 
mills ever since he was a boy. Stella was born in 
one of the ugly three-deckers, close to the mill gate. 
She was ten years old when her father bought one 
of the red cottage-houses on the river-bank. She had 
been proud of the cottage then, and proud of it, 
too, as she grew older. On each side of the little 
porch over the front door, every spring, for years, 
Stella planted morning-glories and wild-cucumber 
vine, which climbed a string trellis of her own 
making. 

The first time Stephen went to see Stella at the 
red cottage her vines were profuse with leaf and 
blossom. She had trained the docile vines to run 
all over the picket fence that surrounded the little 
house, and had shrouded the back porch with them; 
had shrouded with them, too, a latticed summer- 


STELLA DALLAS 


78 

house which stood in the side yard. Stella had 
copied the summer-house, with much the same genius 
with which she copied hats or dresses, from a sum¬ 
mer-house she had seen in a garden in Milhampton 
across the river. Stella’s summer-house was made 
of plasterer’s laths painted white, and criss-crossed. 
The summer-house in the garden at Milhampton, 
designed by a landscape-gardener, had been covered 
with Dorothy Perkins roses. But sunlight shining 
through the chinks of Stella’s morning-glories and 
wild-cucumbers, was just as prettily dappled with 
shadows, as sunshine shining through rose-vines. At 
night the darkness was just as dense inside Stella’s 
summer-house — a little denser, perhaps. Stella had 
been particular to plant her seeds thick. Inside Stel¬ 
la’s summer-house there hung a Gloucester ham¬ 
mock ! 

The first night Stephen called on Stella, he had 
sat in the hammock alone, while Stella had curled 
herself up on the low step of the summer-house, 
leaning her head against one of the upright posts, 
so that the searchlight moon could shine full upon 
her face, and her caller could observe from the dark¬ 
ness of the hammock how pretty she was. 

She was pretty — she was very pretty in those 
days. But it was not Stella’s bright eyes and bright 
cheeks that Stephen Dallas thought about most, 
after that first call. It had n’t been quite dark when 
he arrived. Before he was sure that the red cottage 
was the house where Stella lived, he had noticed the 
morning-glories and wild-cucumber vines. 

When later that first evening he discovered that 
Stella had planted the vines herself, had built much 


STELLA DALLAS 


79 

of the summer-house, driven all the nails in the dia¬ 
mond lattice-work, done all the painting, it had 
set him to thinking. Out of a bundle of plasterer’s 
laths and a handful or two of common little seeds, 
she had created a charming spot. As he leaned back 
in the Gloucester hammock, and gazed at Stella on 
the step below him, the simplicity of her setting, 
the absence from it of everything that required ac¬ 
cumulated wealth to possess, had been soothing and 
comforting to Stephen, suffering as he was — suffer¬ 
ing as he had been for the last year and a half. 

2 

Stephen was young then, barely twenty-three, 
but for eighteen months he had felt nothing but the 
resignation of old age, and the bitterness of disap¬ 
pointed old age. It had never occurred to Stephen 
Dallas that disgrace, disaster, utter and complete 
ruin, could befall him. He had taken it for granted 
always that he would fulfill, to a greater or less de¬ 
gree, his expectations for himself, and his family’s 
and friend’s expectations for him, too. Whether as 
a doctor or lawyer, or business man of ability, he 
did n’t know which, before he went East to school, 
but in some capacity he would fill a position of re¬ 
sponsibility in his home city. It had always been un¬ 
derstood that when Stephen’s education was com¬ 
pleted, he would return to that home city, where he 
had been born, and where his father had been born 
before him, and continue to add honor to the family 

reputation. 

It was a reputation to be proud of. The Dallases 
of Reddington, Illinois, were a respected and hon- 


8 o 


STELLA DALLAS 


ored family. The Dallas house, built by Stephen’s 
grandfather, was quiet and unostentatious in ap¬ 
pearance, but solid, substantial — a big, square 
brick affair, painted dull brown. There was some¬ 
thing so solid and substantial about everything con¬ 
nected with the Dallases, that people in Reddington 
supposed them to be infallible, as immune to panics 
and market fluctuations as an oak to the varying an¬ 
tics of the elements. 

This attitude of the people toward the Dallases 
was partly responsible for their ruin. Stephen’s 
father prized and treasured his reputation for in¬ 
destructibility. To a man of his special brand of 
pride, it was galling to allow his fellow citizens 
even to suspect that the roots of the oak tree were 
not as healthy as the proud and upstanding trunk 
signified. And so it was not until the great tree fell 
— was pulled over by its own weight, and lay 
sprawling on the ground, a mammoth and pitiful 
wreck, for every curious passer-by to gape at — that 
the decayed and rotten condition of the roots was 
discovered by the astonished public. 

When the brief telegram from home reached 
Stephen (he had completed his college course by this 
time and had nearly completed his post-graduate 
course — he had decided to follow in his father’s 
steps and become a lawyer) the message gave no de¬ 
tails. Simply stated the fact of his father’s sudden 
death and summoned him home immediately. 

It was not until he was within a few hours of Red¬ 
dington that he learned of the manner of his father’s 
death. He read it in a Chicago paper. 

His father had committed suicide! He had locked 


STELLA DALLAS 


8 i 


himself up in his office downtown, one night, and 
shot himself with a revolver! 

“ For a number of years,” the article stated, “ Mr. 
Stephen Dallas, who was a lawyer and one of Red- 
dlngton’s most respected citizens, has acted as trus¬ 
tee for various estates, and sole legal and financial 
advisor for a number of charitable institutions. It 
is feared that the various funds entrusted to him 
may have suffered and an investigation of his affairs 
is now under way.” 

Stephen learned upon his arrival home that the 
fears hinted at in the papers were justified. His 
one desire was to escape, to get away from every¬ 
body and everything familiar as soon as possible, 
after the details of burial were disposed of. He had 
no forgiveness, no charity, for his father. He told 
his mother and his older sister Fanny that he wished 
they could dispose of the ruined thing his father 
had made of the Dallas reputation as easily as they 
could dispose of the ruined thing he had made of 
his body. But no, the reputation they must wear 
tied round their necks for everybody to see, and 
stare at, and keep away from. Obliged as he was 
to bear his father’s name (why had his parents hand¬ 
icapped him thus?) he could never hope to suc¬ 
ceed in any large way, he said; for who would ever 
' trust a man with the name of Stephen Dallas? It 
spelled suicide and dishonor now. 

His mother tried In a weak, feminine sort of way, 
Stephen thought, to excuse his father’s act. He had 
never let them even guess at home, she said, that the 
big house and all the servants, the stable full of ex¬ 
pensive cars, and the proportionate demands in way 


82 


STELLA DALLAS 


of clothes and entertaining, and contributions to va¬ 
rious charitable institutions, were eating into his 
capital — had been for years. 

But why hadn’t he? What kindness had it been 
to them? It was beyond Stephen’s young compre¬ 
hension that his father, like some weak, inexperi¬ 
enced bank clerk, could be tempted into “ borrow¬ 
ing ” even a portion of the funds entrusted to him. 

“ Borrowing! ” That is what his father’s friends 
and associates called it, when they talked to Ste¬ 
phen. They tried to soften the facts to him, these 
kind, old, pitying men, who felt sorry to look upon 
the destruction of so young a man’s career, Stephen 
supposed. Well, there was one satisfaction. Thank 
heaven, his father had n’t taken liberties with the 
legacies left to him and Fanny by their grandfather, 
nor touched the solid securities packed away years 
ago in his mother’s safe-deposit box. By scraping 
everything together, none of the estates which had 
been entrusted to his father need to suffer at all. 
The kind old men told Stephen that he and his 
mother and sister were under no obligation. Ste¬ 
phen was glad that his mother and Fanny felt, just 
as he did, that the only thing for them to do was 
to wipe out his father’s dishonesty as far as possible. 

Stephen was glad, too, that his mother and 
Fanny agreed with him that it would be unbearable 
to continue to live in Reddington. As soon as the 
big brown house, and the automobiles, and the serv¬ 
ants were disposed of, they would disappear as qui¬ 
etly as possible. Fanny and his mother would go to 
Chicago and conceal themselves there as best they 
could. There would be little for them to live on. 


STELLA DALLAS 


83 

Only the insurance policy. Stephen would, of course, 
get a job somewhere, as soon as he could. Oh, no, 
he wouldn’t finish at the law school! He couldn’t 
afford the time. He never wanted to see the law 
school again! He never wanted to see anything 
again, or anybody that recalled to him his old 
bright hopes and ambitions, he said. 

“ Oh, no, least of all Helen Dane,” he shuddered, 
replying to his mother’s timid reminder that 
Helen had sent her card to him, with a message 
written on it to come and see her. 

Stephen was thankful that there had never been 
anything serious between him and Helen. There 
might have been. It had seemed last summer as if 
there probably would have been, but not now — 
never now! There was no girl in Reddington, no 
girl anywhere, whom he would ever ask to bear the 
name of Dallas^ 

3 

Stephen first heard of the. Cataract Mills in 
Milhampton, Massachusetts, through an advertise¬ 
ment in a paper. He answered the advertisement. 
He had never been to Milhampton. He had no 
friends, no acquaintances there, that he knew of. It 
was well removed from Reddington. It would serve 
his purpose as well as any other place in the United 
States. His mother had begged him not to put the 
ocean between himself and her, when he had men¬ 
tioned Australia or South America. 

Upon his arrival in Milhampton, Stephen hunted 
up a lodging-house in Cataract Village close to the 
mills,, and hired a room. He worked hard for his 


STELLA DALLAS 


84 

eighteen dollars a week. But there was little joy 
in his work. Even the raise in his position, and pay, 
at the end of the first three months, gave him no 
thrill. What was the use of his rising in the world? 
Wasn’t oblivion what he desired more than any¬ 
thing else? Wasn’t the feature that he liked best 
about his new job, the fact that it hid him, covered 
him up? None of the men who ate breakfast and 
supper with him — who softened their bread-crusts 
in their coffee, and prepared their meat and potatoes 
as Stephen had seen the dog’s meat and potatoes 
prepared at home, chopped all up and covered with 
gravy — had heard of Stephen Dallas of Redding- 
ton. Success, too many raises, would mean exposure 
finally, opening up the old wound again. Stephen 
had suffered enough for a while. 

Stephen believed he would suffer always. But he 
did n’t take into consideration his youth. There is 
something about twenty-three that struggles and 
fights all by itself — never mind how indifferent the 
soul, how sick the body — and accomplishes its pur¬ 
poses and designs without help. The same month 
that Stephen’s mother’s age came to her rescue, Ste¬ 
phen’s youth came to his. Early in September, be¬ 
fore a year had passed since the Dallas oak had 
fallen, death delivered Mrs. Dallas from her suf¬ 
fering. It was two or three weeks before his mother 
died that Stephen met Stella. 

He met her at a church-sociable, in the vestry of 
the Congregational Church in Cataract Village. He 
had gone to the church sociable with the shipping- 
clerk at the mills, who had told him, with a wink, 
that he had met some peaches there at the last 


STELLA DALLAS 


85 

shindy, and invited him to come along, if he want¬ 
ed to. Stephen had never in his life before passed a 
whole year practically void of feminine society. 

It so happened that the night before the shipping- 
clerk invited Stephen to the church sociable, Stephen 
had drifted into a musical show downtown. The mu¬ 
sical show started him to thinking about Helen 
Dane. 

All the way back to Mrs. Bean’s lodging-house he 
had dwelt upon Helen’s loveliness, longed, as he 
did n’t suppose he could ever long again, for an 
hour with her. A wave of despair had swept over 
him. Helen Dane was miles away, barriered and 
forbidden now. 

Stephen had fallen to sleep in his bare, bleak bed¬ 
room very miserable and unhappy. But in reality his 
state of mind was healthier, more normal than it 
had been since his father had died, and that night 
Stephen’s youth danced a little delighted jig of tri¬ 
umph on the dingy pillow-case beside him as he 
slept. 


4 

Stella Martin was an acknowledged belle in 
Cataract Village. Her lips were cherry-red, her 
cheeks peach-blossom pink, and without paint and 
powder in those days. She had, too, as her girl 
friends expressed it, “ stacks of style.” Stella Mar¬ 
tin could drape a straight piece of cloth about her 
hips and shoulders, and it would assume fashionable 
lines all by itself! She far outshone the other young 
girls in Cataract Village. She was far better edu¬ 
cated than the other girls. Stella had gone all the 


86 


STELLA DALLAS 


way through the high school, and graduated in a 
white dress with ruffles. When Stephen met Stella 
she was completing a course at the State Normal 
School on the other side of the river. 

Not that Stella meant to make teaching a life- 
work ! By no means! But it happened that next to 
the State Normal School there was located a tech¬ 
nical school for young men. Stella had heard that 
students at the two institutions of learning some¬ 
times made friendships that led to an interchange 
of ceremonies that sounded attractive to her. 

Stella was ambitious. She could n’t help but see 
she was different from the girl friends of her child¬ 
hood. Most of them were content to take a job in 
the weaving-rooms at the mills, as soon as they had 
finished the ninth grade, or a year or two in the 
high school; or else to marry some raw, half-awake 
young man, from the mills, and live in one of the 
Cataract Village three-deckers, and have children, 
and children, and children! Not Stella, however! 
Nothing like that for Stella Martin! 

There was a little brown spot on Stella’s neck. 
It showed when she wore summer dresses cut in a 
low V in front. She was on the point of having it 
removed when a certain old woman, a sort of half¬ 
witch, told her it was a sign that some day she would 
make a brilliant marriage. So Stella kept her little 
brown spot, and though she laughed and flirted with 
almost every young man who admired her, and gen¬ 
erously let them hold her hand, and take advantage 
of the dark, she had no notion of marrying in a 
hurry. 

Stella had a streak of common sense in her, and 


STELLA DALLAS 87 

she did n’t leave it entirely to the magic power of 
the brown spot upon her neck to bring about the 
brilliant marriage. After providing herself with a 
few possible candidates for the marriage, the enter¬ 
prising Stella spent long laborious hours making the 
yard surrounding the red cottage attractive, with 
morning-glory vines and wild-cucumber; and built 
herself a little temple that was ver>" becoming to 
her t\^e of beauty; and when the young men from 
the technical school came, in their clean collars, and 
dark suits, with beautiful creases down the front 
legs of their trousers, to call on Miss Martin, she 
usually chanced to be sitting in her little shrine. 
Therefore, during the spring and summer and ea riy 
fall these young men seldom caught a glimpse of 
her mother in the ugly mouse-colored wrapper and 
flat shoes shuffling about in the kitchen, washing 
dishes, or mixing bread. They never had a chance 
to discover that the red cottage lacked a dining¬ 
room. Later, after Stella’s charms had worked 
their blinding enchantment, it was her theory that 
the skeletons inside the house were less to be feared. 

5 

The first night that Stephen Dallas went to see 
Stella she exerted herself more than usual in be¬ 
half of her caller, for though he was one of the 
spurned Cataract Mill employees, she was aware 
that he was as far ahead of the technical school stu¬ 
dents of her acquaintance, as to requirements for a 
brilliant marriage, as the technical school students 
were far ahead of the Cataract Village young men. 

Stella had an eye for details. This Mr. Dallas, 


88 


STELLA DALLAS 


she observed, was n’t too spic-and-span. He did n’t 
look as if he had just stepped out of the barber’s 
shop round the corner, and he did n’t smell so. His 
cheeks did n’t shine. His collars did n’t shine, and 
his clothes seemed to have been worn by him long 
enough to fall naturally into his lines, instead of 
retaining those of the wax dummy’s with the black 
mustache in the gentlemen’s furnishing-shop on the 
corner of Main and Webster Streets downtown. 
When he leaned forward his waistcoat (but Stella 
called it vest) clung to him, instead of sticking out 
and making caves and caverns, in which glimpses of 
lining and suspenders could be seen; and straight 
across the vest, rather low-down, where it wrinkles 
a little (just where it ought to wrinkle when a man 
leans forward), Stella observed the slender watch- 
chain made of gold and platinum shafts, linked to¬ 
gether. 

She observed, too, Mr. Dallas’s handkerchief. 
He had pulled it out of his pocket and offered it to 
her to sit on, when she insisted upon occupying the 
low step of the summer-house. She had taken it 
from him just to feel of it. It was made of finest 
linen. It had a narrow hemstitched edge, and hand- 
embroidered letters in the corner. 

“What’s S stand for, Mr. Dallas?” Stella had 
asked with the time-worn coyness of her sex when 
first touching upon so intimate a subject as first 
names. 

“ Stephen.” Stephen had replied shortly, from 
the Gloucester hammock. 

“ Stephen, Stephen,” Stella had repeated two or 
three times — in a dainty, sort of experimental fash- 


STELLA DALLAS 


89 

ion, as if she were tasting some new kind of candy. 
“ Stephen.” Then, “ It’s nice. I like it,” she ex¬ 
claimed and glanced up at Stephen from under her 
long lashes. 

‘‘Really? Do you?” Stephen had laughed, just 
a little disconcerted. 

Stella liked the way he said, “ Really? ” and “ Do 
you?” and later, “ Delightful,” and “ Int’resting.” 
He spoke like an actor on the stage, she thought. 

When Stella discovered that her caller was a col¬ 
lege graduate, and a college graduate from the 
same university which Harold Miller and Spencer 
Chisholm had attended, as well as a half-dozen 
other young Milhampton blue-bloods, who lived on 
the other side of the river, and whom Stella knew 
by sight and reputation, and by their fine houses on 
upper Webster Street, she was aware that this Mr. 
Dallas was the biggest opportunity she had ever 
had. 

You might have thought she would have been a 
little awed, but Stella had confidence in her per¬ 
sonal charms. Experience had convinced her that 
the same upward glances, intimacies, reservations, 
shynesses, boldnesses, what-not, were attractive to 
the genus “ young man ” whatever his species. 
When Stephen Dallas bade Stella good-bye that first 
night, he had held her willing hand a moment longer 
than is conventional and had asked if he could come 
again. 

Later, when Stella went to bed, she tipped the lit¬ 
tle high square mirror on her bureau, well forward 
and gazing up into it, at her bare, fair expanse of 
gleaming neck and shoulders, she placed her fore- 


90 STELLA DALLAS 

finger on the little brown beauty-spot and pressed it 
gently. 

“ I wonder,” she whispered. 

6 

The distance between Mrs. Bean’s lodging- 
house and the little red cottage was only a quarter 
of a mile. It took Stephen less than ten minutes to 
walk it. Mrs. Bean’s boarding-house was an impos¬ 
sible place in which to spend the evening. The walks 
around and about the boarding-house had come to 
seem impossible, too. So also had the bare, white- 
lighted, white-walled reading-room at the Milhamp- 
ton Public Library. 

Ever since Stephen had come to Milhampton (up 
to the time he met Stella), each night, when he fin¬ 
ished his supper in the boarding-house dining-room, 
he was faced with the problem of killing two and 
a half hours somehow till a civilized hour for sleep 
arrived. But after he met Stella, and found the 
straight, easy way that led to the red cottage, there 
was no more problem as to how to spend his eve¬ 
nings — at least as to how he wanted to spend 
them. 

If Stephen’s mother had n’t died just when she 
did; and if, on top of that, Stephen’s sister Fanny 
had n’t received, in reply to an application she had 
made to teach in a girls’ boarding-school in Japan, 
summons to sail immediately, Stephen’s infatuation 
would probably have burned itself out before he was 
in a position to consider additional financial burdens 
of any sort. 

Suddenly Stephen found himself free and unfet- 


STELLA DALLAS 


91 


tered. There was no more need to send weekly 
checks to Chicago. There was no more need to send 
letters there, or to go there'from time to time him¬ 
self. Stephen was entirely cut off from his old as¬ 
sociations, his laboring boat had lost even its drag¬ 
ging anchor, and was touching the shores of a coun¬ 
try on the other side of the earth. 


CHAPTER VII 

1 

Stephen married Stella in January, four months 
after he first saw her. He thought he loved her. 
Most sincerely he thought he loved her. He desired 
to be with her — terribly, terrifyingly — more than 
he had ever desired to be with any girl. Moreover, 
he felt very tenderly towards her. He was aware of 
her limitations, of her little crudities, but what if 
she did make a few mistakes in grammar, a few mis¬ 
takes in taste, occasionally. She was wonderfully 
sweet-tempered, always amiable, always gay, as 
easily pleased as a child, as easily guided, he be¬ 
lieved. 

Once, when he corrected her for one of her gram¬ 
matical offenses (she would say “ somewheres ”; 
and “ would of ” for “ would have ” ; and “ got a ” 
for “ got to — “ got a-laughing,” “ got a-going ”; 
and “ lay ” for “ lie ”; and “ how does it suit,” and 
“ how do you like,” without an object), she replied 
good-naturedly, “ That’s right, Mr. Harvard of 
Bawston, teach me to talk like you do. I’m crazy 
to learn.” 

Stephen thought that he could make her over, rub 
down the rough edges once they were married, once 
he had her alone to himself. Alone, to himself! 
Blinding possibility! Well, well, he must use his 
head, too! 

Of course she was different from the girls he used 


STELLA DALLAS 93 

to know. But he was different from the man he used 
to be. He required somebody different. Stephen did 
not want a girl to step down to him. Stephen did 
not want pity from the woman he married. Stella 
was not stepping down to him. Stella did not pity 
him. 

When he first told her about his father, she re¬ 
plied, lightly, laughingly, “ Mercy, I don’t care 
what your father did, Stephen, nor your great-grand¬ 
father either.” Then, with disarming honesty, 
“ Gracious, you’d never have looked at poor me un¬ 
less something had knocked you off your high 
horse.” 

No girl who belonged to Stephen’s former exist¬ 
ence would look upon a hundred and fifty dollars a 
month as a fortune. Stella did. Nor upon five rooms 
and a bath in an apartment house in the upper Web¬ 
ster Street district in Milhampton, as a palace. 
Stella did. Nor upon himself, dethroned, cast out> 
and disgraced, as still a prince. Stella did. 

Stephen experienced no crude and sudden awaken¬ 
ing. During the first year of their married life, there 
were surprises for him, gentle shocks almost every 
day, but nothing shattering. For instance, he was 
amazed to discover how little education a girl can 
absorb, and go through a high school and two years 
of normal school besides. Why, Stella did n’t know 
Thackeray from George Eliot! 

“ Oh, I suppose I learned about those old fellows 
once, but you know how things of that sort slip in 
and out, unless they’re dinged in everlastingly.” 

But didn’t normal schools “ding in” such things? 
Apparently not. Stephen had been counting on the 


STELLA DALLAS 


94 

normal-school experience. He had dwelt with em¬ 
phasis upon it when he had first written his sister 
Fanny in far-away Japan, about Stella. 

It was another shock to Stephen to discover how 
little interest his precious resurrected library aroused 
in Stella. Once before they were married she had 
told him she would simply adore to live in a room 
with books to the ceiling! But her only passion, as 
far as books were concerned, seemed to be in their 
decorative quality. One day she spent three hours 
changing Stephen’s careful arrangement of his 
books, so that all the bindings of one color should 
be grouped together, irrespective of subject. One 
evening, when Stephen started to read out loud to 
her from one of his favorite authors, in an attempt 
to lure her inside the books, she told him good-na¬ 
turedly, for goodness’ sake not to spout any more 
of that dead, old-fashioned, high-brow stuff to her. 
It gave her the fidgets. 

She had no love at all for music, it appeared, al¬ 
though during the short period of their courtship 
she told Stephen she was “ crazy about it,” and in 
fact seemed to him to be. She was a beautiful 
dancer. “ I just can’t keep still when there’s a 
tune going on.” But after her first real musical 
concert with Stephen, one Saturday night several 
weeks after their marriage (Boston artists often 
came to Milhampton), she frankly confessed her¬ 
self as horribly bored. A violin made her want to 
scream. It was so squeaky, like filing finger-nails with 
a steel file, she thought. Of course if musical concerts, 
Kneisel quartettes and the like were “ the thing,” 
she was game for them. But really a good vaude- 


STELLA DALLAS 


95 

ville show (movies were then in their infancy) was 
much more entertaining. And a good play, where 
you saw modern actors, kept you so much better up- 
to-date, and rubbed the green moss off you in rolls. 
The beauty of out-of-doors had no attraction for 
her, nor flowers either, her morning-glories and wild 
cucumbers notwithstanding. She spent a good deal 
of time outdoors, walking; not, however, for the 
physical exhilaration of it, but simply “ to reduce ” 
(even then Stella was inclined to be a little plump) 
or to save the price of a car-fare, which she usually 
invested in candy. She was always nibbling at 
candy. 

Often during the first few months of his mar¬ 
riage, grave doubts and misgivings assailed Stephen, 
but he was able to send them slinking away usually 
by comparing his present existence with that of a 
year ago. A year ago his evenings had been awful 
stretches of loneliness and unloveliness. Now each 
night there was a very pretty and always good-na¬ 
tured Stella waiting for him in a little sweet-smelling 
apartment; and after his evening meal there were 
distant sounds, far from unpleasing to him, of run¬ 
ning water and rattling dishes, as he sat smoking and 
reading in his old Morris chair, wrapped round 
with his books and his rugs and a few treasured 
pieces of furniture unburied from a storehouse in 
Reddington. 

Later, there was somebody sitting on the arm of 
his Morris chair, pressing against his shoulder, 
somebody soft and warm and alive, and his — all 
his, to do with as he pleased. No; he was not sorry 
that he had married Stella. 


96 


STELLA DALLAS 


2 

If time had not been steadily at work performing 
Its gentle cure upon Stephen, he might never have 
been sorry he had married Stella. But old hopes, 
old ideals began to reassert themselves. In spite of 
himself, gradually, slowly, Stephen became interest¬ 
ed in his job at the Cataract Mills. More than once 
that Spring, Stella, coming in from the kitchen of 
the little apartment after the supper dishes had been 
put away, found Stephen poring over one of the 
sheepskin-bound volumes from the bottom shelf of 
the bookcases he had had built around the living- 
room, his precious Trollope or Meredith (Lord, 
what did he find in those old birds?) pushed aside, 
discarded. 

The sheepskin-bound volumes were Stephen’s law¬ 
books. He told Stella he wanted to satisfy a curi¬ 
osity he had, as to the legal right or wrong of cer¬ 
tain affairs at the Cataract Mills. Stephen was in 
the Complaint Department at the mills at that time. 
This curiosity of Stephen’s percolated through the 
man immediately above him, and through the next 
man, and the next, and the next, and so on to the 
general manager finally. Once the general manager 
discovered Stephen, it was every night then that he 
pored over the law-books. 

Stella did not begrudge the late nights Stephen 
spent with the big volumes. 

“ Gracious,” she had exclaimed, eyes aglint, when 
Stephen confided to her that the general manager 
had suggested that he pass his bar examination, so 
as to be able to assist in the legal end of the busi- 


STELLA DALLAS 


97 

ness, If occasion arose. “ Gracious, a lawyer! My! 
Won’t I feel just grand? Oh, Stephen, I knew I’d 
picked a winner. I would n’t be a bit surprised if 
I found myself a governor’s wife some day, or a 
president’s! Gosh, wouldn’t I be thrilled?” 

“ Oh, Stella. Not ‘ Gosh! ’ Please.” 

“Oh, well — JIminy then — What’s the diff? 
Lord, I’m excited! ” 

“ Poor Stella,” thought Stephen. “ Poor Stephen, 
too! ” For It occurred to him suddenly, sickening- 
ly, gazing at Stella, listening to Stella, that there 
were two reasons now instead of one a year ago why 
he should avoid the smiles and favors of success. 

3 

But he did n’t. He could n’t. Much in the same 
way as water seeks its own level, so Stephen had a 
level he, too, Involuntarily sought. He had been 
born with the love of success running in his veins 
and it would n’t be denied. 

Mr. Palmer, the general manager of the Cataract 
Mills, became very much Interested In Stephen Dal¬ 
las. He had no son of his own; he had no protege 
In whom to feel pride and pleasure. He could well 
feel pride and pleasure in Stephen. Stephen was by 
nature very adaptable, very approachable. His fa¬ 
ther’s act had only temporarily crippled his grace¬ 
ful self-confidence. He was tall and slight, more 
aristocratic than rugged in appearance; forehead 
high, eyes well-set, chin and mouth strong and dis¬ 
tinctive. His dark, close-cut hair grew thick on top 
of his head, but receded on either side like so many 
American boys still in their twenties. The mus- 


STELLA DALLAS 


98 

tache, restrained and close-cut, which he had allowed 
to grow when he first came to Milhampton, in order 
to make him forget whom he had been before, gave 
him a foreign look. 

“English,” delightedly whispered some of the 
Milhampton women, to whom everything English 
was desirable. 

Mr. Palmer suggested his name for membership 
at the Milhampton City Club; at the River Country 
Club; introduced him to a group of young lawyers. 
Stephen ran across some old college acquaintances, 
some old law-school contemporaries. Swiftly, with 
amazing speed old lines of communication were es¬ 
tablished between himself and the world to which 
he belonged. The impression he made upon Mil¬ 
hampton was distinctly favorable. 

One day Mrs, Palmer invited Stephen and his 
wife to dinner. Others invited Stephen and his wife 
to dinner. Stephen became very anxious to feel pride 
in Stella, now that he had begun to feel pride again 
in himself. Stella became very anxious that he 
should feel pride in her. To appear the lady Ste¬ 
phen’s wife should have been born became Stella’s 
greatest ambition. On the first few occasions when 
she appeared with Stephen before the footlights of 
the social life in Milhampton — a stage she had 
gazed upon with longing eyes for years — she would 
do nothing, say nothing, almost think nothing, until 
it was first approved by Stephen. At first she in¬ 
vited his criticism, responded with eagerness to his 
constant drilling and grilling, welcomed his slightest 
suggestion. Of course she made progress. She was 
a clever mimic. At first Stephen had great hopes 
for Stella. 


STELLA DALLAS 


99 


4 

But success went to Stella’s head like wine, even 
a small amount of success. Stella never became the 
belle she thought she did in Milhampton society, 
but she was, for a period, received and accepted by 
certain of its high prelates and officials, for Ste¬ 
phen’s sake. It puffed her all up; it filled her with 
disastrous self-confidence. Within a period of a few 
weeks the limelight of recognition made of the soft, 
pliable clay Stella had been in Stephen’s hands, 
something hard and brittle that would fly to pieces at 
his slightest touch. 

Stella’s first dance at the River Club was a bitter 
occasion for Stephen. She, a stranger, an invited 
guest of Mrs. Palmer’s, had allowed one man to 
dance with her for the entire last half of the eve¬ 
ning. Afterwards in their bedroom, when Stephen 
spoke to her about it, to his amazement she laughed 
and scoffed. 

“ Oh, gracious, Stephen, don’t think you can give 
me pointers on how to treat a man at a dance! 

' There are some things I know more about than you, 
my dear.” 

It was when Stella began to think that there were 
some things she knew more than Stephen, and to 
act upon that superior knowledge, that the seed of 
the trouble that ended so disastrously for her first 
began to grow. 

“ But, Stella, for you, a stranger, to dance so 
much with one man is conspicuous.” 

“ Of course! Of course, it’s conspicuous,” Stella 
replied. “ Oh, I know what I’m about, stupid! 

> 

) > 

) ) ) 


lOO 


STELLA DALLAS 


0 


That man was Spencer Chisholm! Gracious, think 
of it! The Chisholms, Stephen! Think of it! An 
affair between me and Spencer Chisholm!” Her 
eyes sparkled. 

Stephen turned away. It was going to be as dif¬ 
ficult to stamp out Stella’s vulgarity as to rid a lawn 
of the persistent dandelion once it gets its roots 
down. Stephen despised kow-towing. 

“ The Chisholms! My dear Stella, I hope you ’ll 
avoid that attitude toward people hereafter. You ’re 
my wife now.” 

“And can’t look at another man?” she flashed. 

“ That is n’t the point.” 

“ Mercy,” she went right on, “ I can’t help it if a 
man wants to dance with me. I should think you’d 
be pleased to have your wife popular. Most men 
would be. Most men — ” 

“ I’m not pleased to have you talked about. 
Please don’t give any one occasion to again, Stella.” 

“ Good Lord, Stephen, you ’re not going to turn 
out to be the jealous kind, I hope, if another man 
looks at me.” 

Stephen winced. 

“ I hate a jealous man,” she went on. “ I always 
have! ” And she threw down her comb upon the 
dressing-table. It screeched as it struck the plate- 
glass protection. 

Stephen winced again. Throwing things! His 
wife! Accusing him of jealousy! Very quietly he 
went out into the hall, and stood a moment in the 
darkness, waiting till his jarred nerves stopped ting- 
ling. 

“ I must be patient,” he thought. “ It is n’t her 


< < < 


STELLA DALLAS 


lOI 


fault. It is only that she has been bred differently. 
She doesn’t know.” 


5 

There were many late-night discussions in the 
bedroom after that. Stephen hated wrangling, con¬ 
stant argument, constant controversy, but he was 
willing to endure much if he could prevent Stella 
from cheapening herself, and him, too, by promis¬ 
cuous flirtations. But he could n’t. It was a futile at¬ 
tempt. It was as instinctive for Stella’s eyes to 
brighten up, and for her manner to brighten 
up, too, when a man appeared who might ad¬ 
mire her, as for a puppy’s tail to wag when a pos¬ 
sibly appreciative human being approaches. Ste¬ 
phen might as well have tried to discipline the pup¬ 
py’s tail as Stella’s eyes and manner. 

Stella’s fondness for attention from men was not 
deep-seated. If her response had aroused any great 
depth of feeling or desire, red danger-flags would 
have appeared to warn her. As it was, her very 
innocence worked to her disadvantage. She could 
see no reason for not taking a little harmless fun 
as it came along, especially if it improved her so¬ 
cial prospects. Because it was harmless she per¬ 
sisted in it, until Stephen’s patience was worn out, 
and his pride and self-respect torn and tattered. 

It was not only in regard to her relations with men 
that Stella turned deaf ears to Stephen. Under the 
head-turning effect of attentions paid her by such 
women as Phyllis Stearns and Myrtle Holland 
(Myrtle Holland took up Stella Dallas as a sort of 
fad that Spring, her friends said) she came to con- 


102 STELLA DALLAS 

sider all Stephen’s ideas as old-fashioned, and out- 
of-date. 

She could see nothing but advantage in forming 
alliances with such women as Phyllis and Myrtle, 
“ They ’re in everything. They go everywhere.” 
Nothing but distinction in entering into every activ¬ 
ity and amusement that they suggested. “ Gracious, 
how little men know how to get on in society.” Ste¬ 
phen was harping morning, noon, and night, on the 
dangers of too intimate friendships, and too rapid 
progress. “ If I followed your advice I would n’t 
get anywhere. You’d make out of me just a prim, 
stupid, little stay-at-home. Myrtle says she’d just 
die if her husband tried to dictate to her the way you 
do to me.” 

“ ‘ Myrtle says ’! Oh, Stella, you don’t talk over 
our affairs with your women friends, do you? ” 

“Oh, no! Of course not. We talk just about 
the weather I ” 

“ But, Stella, surely your sense of good taste 
would prevent you from telling any one of our dif¬ 
ferences of opinion? ” 

“ Our * squabbles,’ you mean? Oh, Stephen, a saint 
could n’t please you. Finding fault with the things 
I talk about with my girl friends! Honestly! ” 

“ They ’ll only ridicule you afterwards. I don’t 
like those women. I wish you’d avoid them. I don’t 
think they ’re real friends of yours.” 

“ That’s right. Run them down. Have friends of 
your own, you lunch with and play cards with, and 
golf with, and have a regular good time with, but 
don’t let me have anybody! Myrtle says some men 
are like that — jealous even of their wives’ women 
friends. Oh, Stephen, why will you try to take the 


STELLA DALLAS 


103 

joy out of everything so? Why don’t you let me 
have a little fun in life without all this argument? 
I get sick to death of it.” 

“ Oh, very well.” 

“ Yes, you say ‘ very well,’ but you ’ll be at me 
again to-morrow. I don’t find fault with you, do I ? ” 
“ No.” 

“ Well — ? ” 

Stephen was silent. 

“ That’s right, now get glum and sulky, and don't 
say anything'to me but stiff formal things for a 
week. Oh, gracious! ” 

Stella could forget all about such a discussion as 
this by the following morning. “ I’m blessed with a 
good disposition,” she was fond of boasting. “ Dad 
used to say it was almost impossible to worry me 
cross when I was a kid. Come on, Stephen, cheer 
up. 

' If Stephen did n’t, if he could n’t “ cheer up,” 
Stella would fling down her comb, or slam a door, 
and five minutes later be heard humming a song in 
her bath. Stephen suffered. 

6 

“ Why did you ever marry me, Stella? ” once de¬ 
spairingly he inquired. 

“ Why, because I was crazy about you. I thought 
you were perfectly great.” 

“ How can a woman be crazy about a man — care 
for a man, and not be willing to adapt herself some¬ 
what to him, to give up a few things for him? ” 

“ How would it do for you to do a little of the 
adapting, Stephen, a little of the giving up? Why 
did you ever marry me? ” she retorted. 


CHAPTER VIII 

1 

It was an ironic coincidence that the same cause 
that killed the last bit of struggling love Stephen had 
for Stella (if indeed love it had ever been) should 
also bind him to her more closely. 

Suddenly in the midst of Stella’s first year of so¬ 
cial success in Milhampton, she found herself fac¬ 
ing the dismaying possibility that she might soon 
become a mother. She didn’t want to! Not now! 
It would be a terrible tragedy just when she was 
making such headway in Milhampton. It would 
wipe her off the social map for a whole year, or 
more! When the possibility became a certainty, it 
seemed to Stephen that all there was left sweet and 
fine in Stella disintegrated suddenly and completely 
into futile and unbeautiful protest. 

She fought the frightening fact day after day, 
night after night, with violent attacks of crying, with 
uncontrolled fits of rage, self-pity, and despair, as if 
in frenzied resistance lay possible escape. Her one 
desire was to escape — somehow, anyhow, from the 
horrible trap that had snapped on her, and held her 
In Its grasp. 

She talked In a way during this time that made 
Stephen want to go into another room and close the 
door. He did, sometimes. Her complaints were 
worded In the parlance that came easiest to her 
tongue. She was in no mood then to pick words and 


STELLA DALLAS 


105 

choose phrases. All that Stephen held most sacred 
and precious about marriage went to pieces under 
the constant fire. 

He took many long lonely walks into the 
open country around Milhampton that fall to es¬ 
cape from Stella, to get out of sight and sound 
of her and purify himself, if he could, under the 
open sky. His thoughts were bitter ones as he 
tramped and tramped. It seemed as if life was de¬ 
termined to grind its heel upon him, and crush him. 
He did n’t believe in fate; he did n’t believe ill-for¬ 
tune or good-fortune was planned and sent to help¬ 
less victims. He believed stanchly in the unchanging 
law of causation. But oh, it did make a man wish 
there was some other reason than his own fault, 
for disaster following him, wherever he went, what¬ 
ever he did. It had been in an attempt to escape 
the horror of his father’s last act that he had come 
to Milhampton. And now the horror of finding him¬ 
self married to a woman he did not love, had never 
loved (it was to get away from Mrs. Bean’s board¬ 
ing-house that he had married) was his to bear. He 
wished he might go back to Mrs. Bean’s boarding¬ 
house. There are some kinds of unloveliness more 
difficult to endure than mere dirt and grime. The 
apartment was no longer a refuge. 

Stephen made no effort to reason with Stella. In 
the beginning he told her briefly, sternly, that she 
must accept the fact of the coming child, unwelcome 
as it was to her (unwelcome as it was, there¬ 
fore, to him). They must both accept it. There 
was no escape. Absolutely. Having delivered him¬ 
self of this dictum, he treated her as kindly as he 


io6 


STELLA DALLAS 


knew how, as he would a sick and unreasonable 
child — tolerated, indulged, and endured. 

Stella’s protestations quieted down. Her attacks 
of crying and abandonment to despair grew less vio¬ 
lent, less frequent. They disappeared completely 
after a month or so. That was nature’s way. Ste¬ 
phen knew that no emotion can continue long in in¬ 
tensity, in the consciousness of a human being. It 
runs a course, like a disease. Mercifully. Recupera¬ 
tion begins its gentle work, once facts are compre¬ 
hended and accepted. Stephen expected that in time 
Stella would acquiesce and submit to “ her inevita¬ 
ble.” But he did not expect her acquiescence and 
submission to become interest and delight. 

One evening in January she showed Stephen a lit¬ 
tle dress she had been working on in secret, day¬ 
times, when he was absent, she explained. As she 
held it up by the arms for him to see, she gurgled 
with amusement and pleased satisfaction. 

“Isn’t ‘he’ cute?” she laughed delightedly. 

Stephen stared at the little dress, amazed. Why, 
six weeks ago Stella had declared she would n’t take 
a stitch for the baby! He couldn’t refrain from re¬ 
minding her of that. 

“Well, what of it?” she shrugged. “ I said all 
sorts of things then, in the beginning, when I was 
scared, I suppose. Oh, Stephen,” she laughed good- 
naturedly, “ you don’t know beans about women. 
Why, I’m getting quite crazy about the baby now! ” 

Stephen looked at her sharply. Did the maternal 
instinct come alive suddenly in some women, like 
that? 

“Really?” 


STELLA DALLAS 


107 

“ Certainly,” she assured him lightly. “ Of course 
it will tie me down, terribly, for a while, but Myrtle 
says” (she was constantly quoting Myrtle to Ste¬ 
phen) , “ Myrtle says I’d be awfully out of things in 
the long run, if I did n’t ever have a child. All the 
young married set talk babies — at least the women; 
and, after all, it is sort of fun to dress the cunning 
little things up, and send them out rolling, with a 
nurse-girl. Myrtle has got a baby. She dresses her 
in darling things, and Phyllis” (Phyllis was often 
quoted to Stephen, too) “ told me something is go¬ 
ing to happen to her next summer. I’m really quite 
in the swim.” 

Stephen turned away, no longer dismayed. Only 
a little more disillusioned. 

2 

Laurel was born in June. Stephen named her 
Laurel — at least it was the name he applied to her 
the first time he saw her. He had come across some 
clumps of mountain-laurel in bud a day or two be¬ 
fore, when out on one of his long tramps. The buds 
were clusters of sticky little spurs of deep pink and 
red. The first morning the trained nurse brought 
Laurel to Stephen for inspection, the baby was 
wrapped up in layers upon layers of flannel. Only 
the tip of her little pink head was showing. 

“ Hello, you little mountain-laurel bud,” Stephen 
had said to her, at a loss to know what to say. 

He never would have called her a laurel-bud 
again. It was the nurse who insisted upon the term. 
Every morning when she took the baby to Stephen 
for inspection (a ceremony she never failed to per- 



io8 


STELLA DALLAS 


form), she remarked, “ Here’s your little mountain- 
laurel bud, Mr. Dallas I ” 

Laurel’s real name was Hildegarde — it was as 
Hildegarde that she was enrolled on the city’s rec¬ 
ords — but she was never called anything but Laurel 
and “ Lollle,” and sometimes “ Lolliepops.” Myrtle 
Holland had suggested Hildegarde to Stella. It was 
a name that had style and distinction, she had said. 
Stella fully intended to adopt it as soon as Lollie 
was old enough to go to school. But by the time 
Lollle was old enough to go to school, she had ideas 
.of her own upon the subject. She didn’t like Hil¬ 
degarde. 

“ It’s big and ugly, and has corners,** she an¬ 
nounced. 


During the first few weeks of Laurel’s existence 
Stella gloried much more in the pleasing curves her 
own figure assumed than In the exquisite beauty of 
Laurel’s perfect body. Oh, yes, it was a cute little 
thing, she acknowledged, but she had wanted a boy 
— always preferred the opposite sex. She nursed 
the baby for a week or two, but she warned the doc¬ 
tor, with a gay little nod of her head, she was n’t 
going to be “ a cow ” once she got up. How Ste¬ 
phen had cringed when she referred to herself as “ a 
cow.” Honestly It was funny how the English lan¬ 
guage could hurt Stephen. 

Laurel was barely five weeks old when Stella 
donned an evening gown—(“Look at me, Ste¬ 
phen,” she had exclaimed delightedly; “ I’m a per¬ 
fect sylph.”) — and went to an evening dance. 


STELLA DALLAS 


109 

She did n’t look pale and tired and wistful, the 
way most mothers of young babies looked, and go 
home early. “ See,” her bright cheeks announced, 
her ecstatic manner proclaimed, “ it has n’t made 
any difference. I can dance just as well, I can flirt 
just as well! ” She and her partner had been one 
of the half-dozen couples still dancing on the ball¬ 
room floor to the music of a solitary piano at 3 A.M., 
when the janitor began turning off the lights. Ste¬ 
phen, waiting patiently below, outside the ladles’ 
dressing-room, had been the parent who was won¬ 
dering — and wondering bitterly too — if the baby 
had slept through. 

Stella returned to the arena of her ambitions with 
a determination to make up for lost time as quickly 
and as emphatically as possible. And Stephen re¬ 
turned to the valley of shame and humiliation. Dur¬ 
ing this period the cloak he wore to cover the shiv¬ 
ering nakedness of his mortification concealed at the 
same time much of his natural camaraderie. It was 
impossible for him to participate in mild hilarities 
of whatever kind, in Milhampton, under the constant 
ban of his relationship to one whose hilarity was so 
often overdone. He became extremely subdued in 
manner, reserved, short of speech, disinclined to re¬ 
spond to friendly approaches. Some people in Mil¬ 
hampton called him glum and ill-humored. 

Outside Milhampton, however, there was nothing 
glum and Ill-humored about Stephen Dallas. In an¬ 
other city he met amiability more than half way. 
His old charm, of which he possessed no small 
amount, returned to him shining and bright the min¬ 
ute that he escaped his relationship to Stella. He 


no 


STELLA DALLAS 


bore himself with more confidence and effective self¬ 
esteem with business associates, too, who were far 
enough removed from Milhampton to know noth¬ 
ing of his home life. Every week’s or two weeks’ ab¬ 
sence from Stella became oases of refreshment to 
Stephen. Mr. Palmer, accompanying Stephen on 
one of his business trips, had witnessed the metamor¬ 
phosis, and he opened up as many business oppor¬ 
tunities out of town for his protege, as possible. 
Stephen’s reputation for ability in the law spread. 

The year Laurel began going to school, a New 
York law firm asked Stephen to become one of its 
members. Mr. Palmer advised Stephen to accept the 
invitation. It would mean, of course, a loss to him, 
not only a business loss but a personal loss too. Ste¬ 
phen had come to seem to him almost like a son. 
“But go,” he said, “go. It’s your big chance, my 
boy. Go.” 

It happened that, during the time that Stephen 
had the New York proposition under consideration, 
Stella was carrying on a rather more obvious flirta¬ 
tion than usual with a man of a very offensive per¬ 
sonality to Stephen. Stephen had told Stella how 
distasteful this particular man was to him; but Stella 
had paid no heed to his objections. Stephen was al¬ 
ways objecting. 

The man’s name was Alfred Munn. He was a 
stranger in Milhampton. There had sprung up in 
Milhampton an interest in horseback riding the pre¬ 
ceding summer. The River Club had filled its sta¬ 
bles with a dozen or more Kentucky thoroughbreds 
obtained from a Southern hostelry. They were 
somewhat worn-out animals for the most part, but 


STELLA DALLAS 


III 


they were safe and steady for beginners, much safer 
and steadier in fact than their owner — or keepen 
(It was never definitely known which Alfred Munn 
was.) 

Alfred Munn became almost as much of a craze 
at the River Club as the sport he taught. It was 
difficult to get an hour’s instruction from him, if you 
had n’t engaged it weeks in advance. He was busy 
every day from six in the morning till six at night, 
instructing women and children mostly. Certain 
women of the younger married set began paying Al¬ 
fred Munn ridiculous attention. It was discovered 
that it was not only on the back of a horse that he 
was skillful, and the epitome of grace and rhythm; 
he could also excel on the ballroom floor. One of 
the younger married women, bolder than her sis¬ 
ters, invited him to a River Club dance. He was 
soon attending all the River Club dances. He was 
taken up by a certain set of women in Milhampton 
like some new exotic food. 

In spite of the report that he belonged to an aris¬ 
tocratic Southern family of reduced financial cir¬ 
cumstances, most of the women who paid him at¬ 
tention were aware of his lack of breeding. They 
were simply amusing themselves. But Stella 
could n’t see why Alfred Munn was n’t a gentleman, 
she told Stephen. Other women like Edith and Ro¬ 
samond (it was Edith and Rosamond then, instead 
of Myrtle and Phyllis) didn’t seem to find anything 
so horribly objectionable about him. Why in the 
world should Stephen expect her to be so particular! 

Stephen used to find Alfred Munn sitting with 
Stella over a kettle and tea-cups, in the living-room, 


Ill 


STELLA DALLAS 


when he came home in the late afternoon. Stephen 
and Stella had moved from the apartment by then, 
and were living in a detached house with a lawn 
and garden. 

Afternoon tea was an effort and affectation with 
most of the young married women in Milhampton, 
in those days. It was served on low tabourettes, be¬ 
fore open fires, in overheated and underlighted liv¬ 
ing-rooms. It was the Milhampton custom, at that 
time, for the hostess to dangle a perforated silver 
ball, filled with tea-leaves in individual cups of hot 
water, and to inquire, while dangling, as to the 
cream and lemon and sugar. When Stephen found 
Stella coquettishly dangling her silver ball for Al¬ 
fred Munn, as he sat comfortably ensconced in one 
of the big Dallas arm-chairs, it was more than irri¬ 
tation he felt. It was disgust. 

Why, the man left his teaspoon in his cup I He 
had the habit of drawing air through the spaces be¬ 
tween his teeth after eating! And Stella could en¬ 
dure him! When he was not disguised in his rid¬ 
ing-clothes, his coarseness was obvious in such de¬ 
tails as shirts and waistcoats. He wore conspicuous 
jewelry too! On his little finger there appeared 
usually a huge gold ring with red, white, and blue 
stones in it. Occasionally he wore a gold scarf-pin 
representing Psyche asleep in a crescent moon. He 
was that sort of man. Sometimes Stephen found 
Alfred Munn smoking his cigarettes, handling his 
precious books. Sometimes he found him fondling 
Laurel! Laurel didn’t seem to object to it. Why 
should she? — Stephen asked bitterly. Stella was 
her mother. 


STELLA DALLAS 


”3 


4 

The reason Laurel did n’t seem to object to Al¬ 
fred Munn’s fondling her was for the sake of a 
marvelous watch he carried. He used to show it to 
her if she would come and sit in his lap. Laurel 
never forgot the wonders of that watch. When she 
grew up she thought of them whenever she thought 
of Alfred Munn. 

It was a gold watch, big and heavy, and very thick. 
There was a horse’s head engraved on the back of 
it with a diamond eye that twinkled. His bridle was 
studded with tiny red stones. 

Beneath the horse’s head on the Inside of the back 
cover (which Mr. Munn had to pry open with his 
thick thumb-nail) was a picture of another horse. 
It was a pure white horse with a lady in short skirts 
standing on tiptoes on his back I 

Underneath the white horse, way, way inside, 
next to the little gold wheels and blue screw-heads, 
was another picture. It was a colored picture. It 
was a picture of a lady with long hair. She had no 
clothes on at all I 


5 

One day (and It was that day Stephen had de¬ 
cided to go to New York) he had come upon Stella 
and Alfred Munn In the corridor of the Milhamp- 
ton City Club. They had been having lunch there 
In the ladles’ dining-room. 

The City Club was strictly a man’s club. There 
was a ladles’ dining-room, to be sure, but women 
did not make a practice of lunching there without 


STELLA DALLAS 


114 

an escort who was a member. This club had been 
the one place outside his office where Stephen had 
felt safe from Stella in Milhampton. 

Stephen was n’t alone when he met Stella and Al¬ 
fred Munn. There was a lawyer from Boston with 
him, an older man with whom he had been confer¬ 
ring all the morning; and upon whom he was anx¬ 
ious to make just the right impression. Stella had 
greeted Stephen with enthusiasm when she met him, 
and he had had to introduce the Boston lawyer to 
her, to present her impossible escort to him as well. 

It was with a sinking heart that Stephen noticed 
that Stella had probably ordered something in the 
way of liquor to go with the luncheon she had just 
been enjoying with Munn. She was particularly vi¬ 
vacious. Stella never drank enough of anything to 
lose her self-control, but she did like getting her 
tongue unloosened, once in a while, she said, and 
her “ flirting spirit up.” Her “ flirting spirit was 
up ” now, Stephen observed. She made an arch at¬ 
tempt to flirt with the Boston lawyer, as she gave 
him her hand! 

Stephen could feel himself grow red with mortifi¬ 
cation. He hastened the meeting to as speedy an 
end as possible, but brief as it was, it unpoised him, 
sapped him of all assurance and self-confidence. 

He didn’t want to look the Boston lawyer in the 
eyes after the meeting with Stella and Munn. 

That night he wrote to the New York law firm 
and definitely accepted their proposition. Stephen 
was in a mood to accept any proposition which of¬ 
fered him relief from Stella. 


CHAPTER IX 

1 

It was only temporary relief he contemplated, 
then. It was his intention, when he first went to New 
York, to establish Stella somewhere, sometime, with¬ 
in commuting distance of his business. Not within 
too easy commuting distance, however. “ In New 
York a man’s business-life and his home-life,” Mr. 
Palmer had once said to Stephen, avoiding his eyes 
as he did so, “ can be made two distinct and sepa¬ 
rate affairs, which is difficult to accomplish in a place 
the size of Milhampton.” 

When Stephen first went to New York, he con¬ 
sulted several real-estate agents, and listened to 
many confusing arguments, about the desirability of 
this suburb over that, its commuting advantages, its 
unexcelled schools, its unusually “ nice ” set of young 
people. Stephen fully expected that Stella would 
join him in the spring in some suburb or other best 
suited to her peculiar susceptibilities. Or if not in 
the spring, in the summer. It would be unwise, he 
concluded, to take Laurel out of school until the end 
of the year. Laurel had just started in at Miss 
Fillibrown’s in Milhampton, an excellent school for 
little girls. Stephen had no idea of leaving Stella 
permanently when he first went to New York. 

But until he went to New York, Stephen had no 
idea what release from Stella would mean to him. 
He had no idea what possibilities for success, what 


STELLA DALLAS 


ii6 

resources for enjoyment, had been growing In the 
dark within him, unencouraged, all these years. He 
went out among people very little the first winter, 
but he was able to devote himself to work as never 
before. When he did seek recreation, the freedom to 
follow whatever whim or fancy his nature dictated 
was actually exhilarating. 

Since October, when he first went to New York, 
and the New Year, Stephen spent three Sundays 
with Stella. Each one was an ordeal to him, and each 
one a more difficult ordeal than the one before. The 
long periods of absence tended to make him more 
sensitive to Stella’s offenses, he supposed. It seemed 
to him as if she almost delighted in doing the sort of 
things he disliked over those week-ends; indulging in 
all the striking slang of the day; indulging in all the 
striking styles of the day (she knew how he disliked 
her in conspicuous clothes) ; carrying on long gig¬ 
gling conversations over the telephone with “ one of 
the girls,” gossiping, tale-bearing; carrying on long 
giggling flirtations over the telephone with one of 
her male admirers, going through a series of smiles 
and smirks, shrugs and arch expressions, as if the 
man himself were present to see her, ignoring Ste¬ 
phen behind his book at the other end of the room 
as if he were a plant or piece of furniture; dashing 
off for her riding-lesson at ten o’clock Sunday morn¬ 
ing with Alfred Munn, while Stephen read the pa¬ 
per or went to church or took a walk by himself. 
Going back on the train after his third week-end 
with Stella, Stephen asked himself why he persisted 
in these self-inflicted periods of torture. 

To what end? To what purpose? The idea of 


STELLA DALLAS 


117 

separation or divorce had always been distasteful to 
him, but some things were worse — a thousand times 
worse, after love had turned to contempt, and re¬ 
spect to scorn. Of course there was Laurel. But 
wasn’t it better for Laurel not to grow up beneath 
the shadow of constant chafing and irritation? He 
could see Laurel. She could come to New York 
occasionally. He could have his child alone. 

On a certain week-end in January, which Stephen 
forced himself to spend in Milhampton, he had 
found upon his arrival some cigarette ashes in a 
tray upstairs in the little sitting-room off Stella’s 
bedroom. Stella didn’t smoke. At that time few 
of the women in Milhampton smoked. Stephen 
didn’t refer to the cigarette ashes to Stella. He 
was too listless, too desireless to care who had left 
the ashes there. He didn’t doubt Stella’s fidelity. 
Not then. It was just another offense in taste. 
She’d be sure to argue, to harangue, to acclaim In 
a tone, that would become loud and harsh, that she 
could see no difference between a man’s smoking up¬ 
stairs and down. And the pity of it was she could n’t 
see the difference. 

A month slipped by. Two months. Stephen wrote 
only the briefest notes to Stella and they were far 
between. Oh, how easy it was to drift out of the 
troubled waters! What a comfort and relief I ‘ 

2 

At first Stephen’s periods of absence were a com¬ 
fort and relief to Stella, too. It was simply wonder¬ 
ful, she told Effie McDavitt, to go about unham¬ 
pered, when, where, how, and with whom she 


STELLA DALLAS 


ii8 

pleased, and have a little harmless fun in life, with¬ 
out being preached to for hours afterwards. It 
did n’t seriously occur to Stella that Stephen’s ab¬ 
sences portended anything permanent. When Effie 
suggested such a possibility, she “ pooh-poohed ” 
the idea. 

‘‘ Oh, goodness, no,” she said. “ It would just 
about kill Stephen if his domestic affairs got aired in 
the newspapers. I know Stephen. I never could even 
mention divorce, or separation, in our squabbles, 
even as a joke, without his sort of turning away, as 
if I’d said something indecent. No. We ’ll stick — 
you ’ll see.” 

In early March, Stella wrote to Stephen and asked 
him when he expected to come home next. She’d 
like to know so as to be there. There was a good 
deal going on and Rosamond was planning a house- 
party out at her country place, over some week-end 
soon. 

Stella was unprepared for Stephen’s reply. He 
told her that he had no definite plan as to when 
he was coming to Milhampton next. She was not to 
worry about expenses, the letter went on significant¬ 
ly. He would see that she and Laurel were always 
provided for. Had he known in January that he was 
not coming back again for so long a while, he would 
have told her. But after all they had already had 
their discussions. 

“Isn’t that the coolest?” Stella exclaimed to 
Effie. She made frequent trips across the river to 
Effie’s tenement now. She always made frequent 
trips across the river to Effie’s tenement when she 
had “ something on her mind.” 


STELLA DALLAS 


119 

“ You’d think we’d had a row or something, the 
last time he was here, but we did n’t. In fact, it 
seemed to me, if anything, he was a little more 
friendly than usual. I can’t imagine what he’s got 
up his sleeve. I think he had a right to kick up a 
little dust, don’t you? Puts me in a pretty position! 
It wasn’t bad, for a while playing around alone, 
and calling myself a grass-widow, as a joke. But 
the real thing is an entirely different matter. It’s no 
fun being an extra woman of any kind for long, in 
society. If you don’t own a husband, or a brother, 
or some two-legged article in trousers, you drop out 
of things — out of evening things, anyhow. Of 
course, there are luncheons, and teas, and women’s 
shindies left, but I get on best with men, and I look 
best in evening clothes, too. I’m the kind, anyhow, 
who wants to take in everything that’s going. The 
more places you ’re seen at the more you go to, and 
it’s just life to me to keep going! Why, when I 
don’t go out for a week — have a wave and a mani¬ 
cure and a hot bath and get all dressed up in my best 
clothes, and set out for a real little party of some 
sort somewheres—I get horribly depressed. Lis¬ 
ten here, Effie, I haven’t eaten a dinner outside my 
own house for three weeks now! I haven’t been 
to a River Club dance since Alfred Munn took the 
horses South in December! I’ve known for quite a 
while it was time for Stephen to come back and get 
Laurel and me.” 

Effie wailted to know why Stella did n’t write to 
him, and urge him to come back and get her then. 

“ Urge him to come back! ” Stella exclaimed. 
“ Indeed, I won’t I I’ve got a little pride left, I 


lao 


STELLA DALLAS 


hope. I never urged a man to come back to me yet, 
and I don’t intend to begin. Oh, I ’ll manage some¬ 
how. Don’t worry. You ’ll see.” 

She herself worried a good deal. What was she 
to say? She couldn’t go on indefinitely, telling peo¬ 
ple that Stephen had arrived so late on a Saturday 
and been obliged to go back so early on Sunday, that 
he had n’t seen any of his friends. Nor could she 
repeat many times the subterfuge she had success¬ 
fully carried through once, of stealing across the 
river, and burying herself for three or four miser¬ 
able days in the little red cottage with her father, 
returning with the story that she had been in New 
York. 

It had been necessary to practice involving decep¬ 
tions in explaining her absence from such generally 
discussed functions as the River Club costume dance, 
and the Annual Charity Ball. Once she had pre¬ 
tended a turned ankle, another time a headache. 
But the truth was that on both these occasions she 
had stayed at home and had gone to bed at ten 
o’clock, because no one had invited her to a dinner¬ 
party beforehand. She could n’t go to a dance with¬ 
out either a man or a party! 

She had tried to get up a party of her own before 
the ball. But everybody’s plans seemed to be made. 
Rosamond might easily have included her in the 
dinner-party she gave. She had two extra men. 
Neither Edith nor Rosamond had had her to a sin¬ 
gle dinner-party since Stephen had gone to New 
York! And they were her “best friends” in Mil- 
hampton now. She had had them one night, with 
two other couples. A real party! Ten in all. She 


STELLA DALLAS 


lai 

had given them two cocktails apiece and a generous 
amount of Stephen’s champagne. Not one of her 
guests had reciprocated yet by an invitation of any 
kind. 

The possibility of an empty engagement calen¬ 
dar, the consideration of long stretches of idle days 
with no climaxes at their ends, filled Stella with 
alarm. Frightening ghosts of various kinds filtered 
through the cracks of Stella’s bedroom, during this 
time, woke her up every morning about five, and 
kept her awake until it was time to get up and dress. 
The tragic idleness of a certain new gown she had 
bought in January haunted her day and night. 
Never had a new dress of hers remained new so 
long. For three weeks It had hung In the closet, just 
as it had been lifted from Its box. Stella longed to 
wear the gown. It would make an Impression. 
Now that she could no longer contribute a man to 
society It was necessary for her to contribute at 
least an Impression. A conspicuous gown could do 
a lot for a woman at a dance, Stella believed. 

“ But It can’t if it hangs In the closet,” she sobbed 
into her pillow. 

3 

When Alfred Munn returned from Florida with 
his horses for another season at the River Club, he 
put many of Stella’s ghosts to flight. He filled her 
engagement calendar; he provided climaxes to her 
days; he saw to It that there was never a week when 
Stella did n’t dress up In her best clothes and set out 
for “ a real little party ” of some sort somewhere. 
He broke the back of the worst goblin of all<—her 


122 


STELLA DALLAS 


fear (her almost conviction now) that when a wom¬ 
an’s husband goes out of town for any length of time 
and people begin to wonder why, all her old admir¬ 
ers turn tail and run, too, to avoid any possible dan¬ 
ger of being mentioned in a scandal. Life would n’t 
be worth living, Stella felt, if she had no admirers. 

Riding was still popular in Milhampton that 
Spring; Alfred Munn was still popular. Stella 
grasped at his attentions eagerly, instinctively, as 
she would at a rope flung to her from the basket of a 
balloon that offered to rescue her from some un¬ 
fortunate fate and carry her aloft. But the balloon 
of Alfred Munn’s popularity in Milhampton had 
already begun to lose its buoyancy. It could n’t 
carry Stella far. Alfred Munn should have been 
throwing off ballast instead of taking more on. For 
a while, though, it lifted Stella out of the valley, 
and diverted her attention from its shadows. Un¬ 
der the excitement of Alfred Munn’s attentions, 
Stella took heart. 

Alfred Munn invited her to every dance there was 
at the River Club that spring. People began to 
talk. Women, she told Effie, began to envy. She 
knew of at least a dozen who would give their eye¬ 
teeth if Alfred Munn would ask them to dance with 
him. He really was as good as a professional. He 
had asked her to be his partner in one of the new 
fancy dances last Saturday night. They had been 
the only two on the floor. Everybody else had sat 
around and stared, and applauded afterwards! Oh, 
she was really managing to make quite a splash in 
Milhampton with Alfred Munn. At the Luncheon 
Club she belonged to, “ the girls ” had discussed lit- 


STELLA DALLAS 123 

tie else last Friday. Rosamond was simply green 
with jealousy. Stella could tell she was, because she 
acted so cool and offish. Lots of people were ‘‘ jolly¬ 
ing ” her about him. She got it from all sides. Even 
that nice old tabby-cat, Mrs. Palmer, had heard the 
talk. She had stopped her, on the street, one day, 
and given her a little motherly advice. Too bad no¬ 
body ever Invited Ed to dinner, or to anything small 
or private. He would be so much more useful. She 
could n’t see why they did n’t. But never mind, he 
was convenient just as he was, and oh, awfully kind I 
She was getting a little tired of him, she must con¬ 
fess. But then, she always did, when “ the new ” 
wore off, and “ they got a little slushy.” 

Effie wondered If there was n’t danger of Ste¬ 
phen’s hearing about the splash Stella was making 
In Milhampton with Alfred Munn. 

“ Why, of course,” Stella exclaimed to that. “ I 
want him to hear about It. I don’t Intend to give 
Stephen the satisfaction of thinking I had to go into 
seclusion the minute he cleared out. He had an idea 
I could n’t get along In this town without his telling 
me how to do It. He meant to use his Importance to 
my position here as a kind of gun to point at me 
and make me do just as he wants, when we get to¬ 
gether again. Good gracious, having a good time, 
being successful all by myself, Is the only gun I’ve 
got to point at himy my dear.” 

But Stella was Inexperienced In the use of fire¬ 
arms. Her gun exploded when she did n’t expect it 
to. And she herself became the victim. 


124 


STELLA DALLAS 


4 

It’s possible to receive a bullet wound, even a fa¬ 
tal bullet wound, and be unaware of it, until you 
put your hand to the spot where it tingles a little. 
You’re surprised when your fingers come into con¬ 
tact with something warm and wet. You ’re shocked 
when you draw them away, and find them red! 
Laurel was the messenger who brought the first 
sign of red to Stella’s horrified attention. 

Stella sent out a dozen invitations to a party for 
Laurel in June. All Laurel’s schoolmates were hav¬ 
ing parties this year. Stella intended that Laurel’s 
party should surpass them all. There was going to 
be a tailless donkey, and a peanut-hunt, and a cob¬ 
web contest, and a Jack Horner pie, and creamed 
chicken, and ice-cream, and paper caps. 

Laurel had been told all about the elaborate plans. 
She had helped select the invitation-cards with the 
pretty colored pictures in the corner, and the thrill¬ 
ing announcement underneath, “ I am going to have 
a party.” She had stood close beside her mother 
when the blank spaces had been filled in. She had 
watched the addressing of each one of the little pink 
envelopes. Afterwards, standing on tiptoes, she had 
dropped them, one by one, into the green box at the 
corner. 

Laurel mailed the invitations on a Friday night. 
All day Saturday and Sunday she was full of the ex¬ 
hilarating consciousness that others were sharing 
the wonderful secret now. When she started to 
school on Monday there was a sparkle beneath the 
calm gray surface of her eyes that made them look 


STELLA DALLAS 


125 

almost black — like the pools of meadow-brooks in 
mid-morning sunshine. When Laurel came home 
at noon her eyes seemed to have faded like the pools 
when the sun is hidden behind clouds. Instead of the 
blackness and the sparkle there was a grave, won¬ 
dering, bewildered look in them. 

“ Nobody can come to my party, mother,” she 
announced briefly. 

All day Sunday the mothers of the recipients of 
the pink envelopes had been busy at the telephone. 

Twice Laurel had to tell her mother that nobody 
could come to the party before Stella grasped the 
significance of the announcement. Then fiercely she 
threw her arms about Laurel, and held her to her 
tight. 

“ We don’t care. We don’t care! ” she burst out. 
‘‘Let them stay away! We’ll have our party by 
ourselves! Don’t you mind, Lollie. We ’ll have the 
party just the same — you and I and Uncle Ed 
Munn. Cats! Just because father runs off and 
leaves us all alone! Well — we’ve got each other, 
Lollie, anyhow. I won’t ever run off and leave you, 
and, oh, Lollie, you won’t ever run off and leave 
me, will you — ever, ever? ” Stella was crying now. 

Laurel did not cry. She stood very still, and lis¬ 
tened, and afterwards remembered. 



CHAPTER X 

1 

It was several weeks before Stella knew how se¬ 
rious her bullet wound was. She was calm by that 
time. She could talk over its details with Effie Mc- 
Davitt with perfect composure and with a touch of 
brusque humor, too. 

“ Why,” she said, “ Ed bores me. He never gave 
me a thrill in his life. Oh, Milhampton makes me 
sick! Narrow-minded, evil-minded, nasty-minded, I 
think. I ’ll tell you just how it was. I was down 
there in Boston, for two days, shopping, getting fa¬ 
vors and things for Lollie’s party. Naturally, when 
Ed suggested that he run down and take me to the 
theater in the evening, I was plpsed to pieces. 
Would n’t you be? I love the theater in Boston. We 
did n’t stay at the same hotel, though for the life of 
me I don’t see why we should n’t. There were a 
hundred or so other men staying there. Glory, how 
I hate all this winking and shoulder-shrugging stuff 
about hotels and bedrooms! When Ed suggested, 
after the theater, that he drop around and have 
breakfast with me, why, I said, ‘ Sure, Mike,’ quick 
as a wink. It never entered my head but what that 
was all right. I did n’t care if somebody from Mil¬ 
hampton did see me. Married woman like me! 
Breakfast! Right in a public dining-room! What’s 
there so horrible about that, I’d like to know! I 
did n’t’want anything of Ed but a little fun, and a 


STELLA DALLAS 


127 

little advertising. When Stephen wrote to me in that 
iceberg-y way of his, and asked if I would like my 
freedom so as to be able to marry Alfred Munn, I 
could have screamed! Marry Ed? Why, I’d com¬ 
mit suicide first. I don’t want to marry Ed I Has n’t 
anybody any understanding of the human animal? 
A woman can have other reasons for liking a little 
attention than just the one the shady stories are all 
based on. I’m no worn-out old man whose appe¬ 
tite for everything but just indecency has gone dead. 
I like a little dinner and theater-party just for fun^s 
sake. Honestly, Effie, sometimes I think I’m the 
only one who’s got a clean mind in this town.” 

Stella took rooms, for the season, at a fashion¬ 
able hotel on the coast of Maine that summer. She 
had never spent a summer at a hotel. It might prove 
diverting. She certainly needed something diverting^ 
she thought. But whatever it proved, the arrow of 
direction pointed her out of Milhampton for a 
while. 

“ I ’ll give the mud-slingers in this town a rest for 
a month or two,” she said to Effie. “ By the end of 
the summer perhaps their muck will have all dried 
up. Of course, it would be rather nice if I could 
fall into some harmless, but showy ‘ little affair ’ this 
summer, with some attractive gentleman or other, 
up there at that fashionable hotel. That would 
prove there was n’t anything serious in this Alfred 
Munn business. It would be rather nice, too, if some 
of the cats in this town could hear that I was having 
a wonderful time this summer — being taken right 
into all sorts of inner circles, and select groups. Oh, 
there are lots of possibilities in this summer hotel 
scheme of mine, Effie, my dear.” 


128 


STELLA DALLAS 


Stella equipped Laurel with a dozen new frocks, 
replenished her own wardrobe, and, stout-heartedly, 
set forth to new fields and untried country, in search 
of fresh laurels with which to cover up the dried 
and dead ones. 

That was the beginning of her summer hotel era. 
In the fall, not even Effie was told, in detail, of the 
disheartening experiences of the first experiment. 

“ You can drill forever for oil in some places, but 
unless oil is there, it won’t do you any good,” was 
how Stella briefly summed it up. “ Next summer, 
I ’ll try the Cape — or the mountains possibly.” 

Stella did n’t go back to the detached house when 
she returned from Maine. Instead she took two- 
rooms-and-a-bath in an apartment hotel that had 
lately been built in a residential section of Milhamp- 
ton. 

The apartment hotel offered her more compan¬ 
ionship than the detached house. There would at 
least be the necessity of getting out of a kimono 
when you went down to meals. Besides, she could 
have people to dinner more safely. The invaluable 
Hedwig, whom Stephen had engaged six years ago, 
and taught and trained, had left to be married. 
Stella was afraid to trust a new servant with all the 
hard-and-fast rules. In an apartment hotel, all you 
had to do, if anything went wrong, was to shrug 
and say, “ Oh, dear, is n’t the service in this place 
dreadful? ” 

Moreover, there were social advantages. The 
King Arthur (that was the name of the^new apart¬ 
ment hotel) was to be patronized by what Stella 
called “ the right people.” She needed all the advan- 


STELLA DALLAS 


129 

tages that she could get from close proximity to the 
right people. 

Stella was determined not to let her injury of the 
preceding spring incapacitate her. It is n’t always 
necessary for a man to go to bed and stay there even 
if there is a bullet embedded in him somewhere. 
Stella was n’t going to become a social invalid just 
because she’d been unfortunate and the target of a 
little disagreeable gossip. 

Alfred Munn had left Milhampton by the time 
Stella and Laurel returned from Maine. He had 
gone into another business in another city. Some¬ 
body else had taken over the horses. In time people 
would forget about Ed. Bullet wounds heal. Scars 
can be covered up. Of course it was a handicap not 
to have a husband if he was still in the land of the 
living; at least it was a handicap in Milhampton, 
Massachusetts. In California single married women 
were as plentiful as sunshine, and as welcome, Stella 
had heard — Oh, she did wish it had been in some 
place in California that she and Stephen had hap¬ 
pened to put down their roots. But it could n’t be 
helped. It was only common sense, of course, to 
keep on growing in the same place where they’d 
started. Stella appreciated her own limitations to 
the extent of realizing that it would be difficult, even 
in California, to work her way up alone to anything 
like the position that she had attained with Stephen 
in Milhampton. 

When Stephen’s business took him to New York, 
Laurel was enrolled as a pupil in the exclusive school 
of the community. She attended the exclusive danc¬ 
ing-class, and she attended the exclusive Sunday- 


STELLA DALLAS 


130 

school. Stella belonged to a few helpful organiza¬ 
tions herself. Her name was in the Blue Book. She 
had at least a bowing acquaintance with almost 
everybody “ worth-while.” She had lots of men 
friends. She believed she had quite a few women 
friends of value. There was, besides, Stephen’s 
membership at the River Club, an asset indeed to 
her now, since she had no house of her own in which 
to entertain crowds, and pay back social debts. 

It was a very unhappy day for Stella when she 
first learned that Stephen had resigned from all his 
Milhampton clubs. She thought it was the cruelest 
blow he could deal her. At that time Stella was 
mercifully unaware how many more cruel blows 
were to follow, not from Stephen alone, but from 
everybody — from all sides. They did n’t come all 
at once. If they had, she must have been convinced 
of the futility of her effort, and given up her fight 
early. 

Her defeat was gradual. She lost ground by de¬ 
grees. Her various points of vantage and fortresses 
of strength fell slowly. This season she failed to re¬ 
ceive an announcement of the Current Events Class; 
next season, her name appeared to have been 
dropped from the Charity Ball list. The season 
after, the small Luncheon Club she belonged to was 
reorganized and she was omitted. Every year there 
were personal slights of various kinds, coolnesses, 
intentional inattentions from all quarters. Laugh¬ 
ingly — bitterly, too — she told herself that the 
people in Milhampton must be having some sort of 
chronic eye difficulty. So many old friends and ac¬ 
quaintances failed to recognize her, lately. But 


STELLA DALLAS 


131 

Stella did n’t lose hope. She did n’t, anyhow, show 
that she lost hope. She managed to keep her eyes 
bright, and her lips smiling, and her head erect, in 
spite of repeated rebukes. 

“Why, I’ve got to. For Lollie’s sake,” she said. 
“ Lollie mustn’t know her mother has got anything 
to look sour-faced over. Oh, we ’ll be all right after 
a while — Lollie and me,” she told Effie McDavitt. 
“We’ll come out on top in the end. lYou watch 


2 

It was always “ Lollie and me,” always “ we,” 
and “ us,” by that time. Stella did n’t even think in 
the singular number, once her maternal instinct had 
worked its way up through her vanities and self- 
interests and appeared in her consciousness. The 
seed of it must have been planted deep, for it took 
a period of years to appear. In vain Stephen had 
looked for it when Laurel was a baby; and later 
when she was in the helpless, toddling stage. 

For the first half-dozen years of Laurel’s life, 
Stella took her lightly. Not that she neglected her 
in any obvious way. She could n’t. There were cer¬ 
tain manners and forms in the modern bringing-up 
of a child that had to be observed. She had an 
excellent nurse-girl for Lollie; she spent hours in 
the selection of Lollie’s clothes; she had a Mother- 
Goose cretonne at Lollie’^s windows; a Noah’s-Ark 
paper on Lollie’s walls. There were low chairs, and 
low shelves. Stella loved to show Laurel’s room to 
guests, when occasion arose. Laurel benefited by 
many an attention from Stella in those days that did 


STELLA DALLAS 


132 

not spring from the maternal instinct. However, 
the maternal instinct must have been growing under¬ 
neath the surface, and growing according to Na¬ 
ture’s own methods — sending down tough wiry 
roots in the dark, all the while it was sending up its 
tender arrow-pointed shaft of life, for when it did 
shoot through into the light, the plant was strong 
and vigorous. 

Perhaps the first time that Stella was aware of the 
new insistent force within her was the day Laurel 
came home from school with the news about the 
party. 

“ Gosh, Effie,” she had said afterwards, “ I don’t 
care what people do to me, but to stick hatpins into 
Lollie — into my baby! Say, that’s more than I 
can stand. I’m ready to use my claws on anybody 
who hurts Lollie.” 


3 

During the years between Laurel’s sixth birth¬ 
day and her thirteenth there were many times for 
Stella to use her claws. There were many times that 
Laurel was hurt and Stella knew it. “ Though the 
funny little kid does n’t think I do. She never lets 
on to me. I just have to guess at it from the way 
she acts.” 

If she came home from school especially quiet 
and uncommunicative, and was not very hungry at 
dinner, Stella would begin to be suspicious. 

“What’s the matter?” she would demand with 
a piercing look. 

“ Nothing,” Laurel would reply, feigned surprise 
and wonder in her voice. 


STELLA DALLAS 


133 


“ Has anything happened at school? ” 

“No.” 

“ Who’d you play with at recess? ” 

“ Nobody special.” 

“ Did you play all alone? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Look here, Lollie. Answer me. Has somebody 
been horrid to you? Has somebody hurt your feel¬ 
ings? ” 

“ No.” 

If Stella stared at her hard enough, probed long 
enough. Laurel might reply, “ My stomach aches a 
little bit,” and pay the price of two shredded wheat 
biscuit and no dessert for dinner. 

It would never be from Laurel that Stella would 
get the first wind of a party in prospect from which 
Laurel was omitted. Laurel would never tell her 
that the girls in her class were meeting every few 
days at each other’s houses to work for a fair, or 
to rehearse a play or fete in which she had no part. 
When information of an event of this sort did reach 
Stella, she knew then what had been the cause of 
Laurel’s quiet, brown-study day a week ago. And 
yet she could n’t use her claws after all. It would 
be the worst policy in the world For the sake of 
Lollie’s future, for that dim, far-away, full-of-prom- 
ise time when Lollie would “ come out ” (girls 
“ came out,” now, in Milhampton), she must be as 
nice and purry as she knew how to the women she 
knew who could help her daughter. 

Laurel could see through her mother’s little shams 
and deceits, devised to spare her pain, much quicker 
than Stella could see through Laurel’s. At thirteen 


STELLA DALLAS 


134 

Laurel was an odd mixture of artificiality and truth¬ 
fulness, of craft and naivete, of grown-up woman 
and little girl. She could deceive her mother with¬ 
out flickering an eyelash, and could repeat to stran¬ 
gers the little white lies Stella taught her, with the 
finesse of a woman of the world, but at school in \ 
her work and play, she was never anything but 
strictly honest. 

As experienced as Laurel was in certain of the 
world’s cruelties, and as mature in her calm man¬ 
ner of acceptance of whatever befell, she was amaz¬ 
ingly young and innocent about many of the facts 
of life. Another antithesis. Much younger and 
much more innocent than the group of sophisticated 
little girls in her class at school. They were con¬ 
stantly spending days and nights with each other. 
Their intimacies led to easy discussions of all sorts 
of subjects. By the time they were twelve their ac¬ 
tivities out of school were closely resembling their 
mothers’. And their conversations, too. There were 
already conflicting invitations for every Saturday. 
Laurel could catch bits of conversation, now and 
then, as the various competing parties and enter¬ 
tainments were reviewed afterwards, and their de¬ 
tails discussed and criticized. Most of these girls be¬ 
came perceiving and canny little critics before they 
had finished playing dolls. 

Laurel had no intimate friends, belonged in no 
group, joined in no daily gossipings. Her critical 
faculty went through no such course of training. 
She was still groping for the whys and wherefores of 
many of society’s verdicts long after her dolls were 
put away. Why had she no intimate friends? Why 


STELLA DALLAS 135 

was she never asked to lunch, or to spend the night? 
Why had she been dropped from the Widow’s Mite 
Club which met Saturday mornings at Stephanie 
Holland’s? The worldly-wise little girls at school 
could have told her. 

“ It’s your mother.” 

“What’s the matter with my mother?” she 
would have asked, surprised. Laurel thought her 
mother beautiful. The little girls would have 
shrugged and said, “ Our mothers don’t ‘ know 
her.’ ” With just the same shrug and inflection that 
had silenced them. 

But Laurel never asked questions of the little 
girls. She passed through her childhood blindfolded, 
picking her way cautiously along, sensitive finger¬ 
tips stretched out before her to avoid sharp corners 
and unyielding walls, clinging close to the protection 
of solitude and isolation. 

There were other questions besides those con¬ 
nected with social values to which she did n’t know 
the answers, big questions like, what becomes of dead 
people, and what God is like, and if He really hears 
you pray, and knows when a bird falls out of a nest, 
and where babies come from, and what doctors 
carry in their mysterious leather bags, and how kit¬ 
tens are born, and if there was ever actually a 
George Washington, and a Polyphemus, and a Jesus 
Christ, and a Noah, and a Noah’s Ark, with a pair 
of every kind of animal there is in it, even a pair of 
mosquitoes, and why there had to be a pair. 

Laurel never asked her mother questions about 
big things. She had discovered that her mother al¬ 
ways changed the subject ever so quickly if she did. 


STELLA DALLAS 


136 

And once she had exclaimed, “ Oh, my! Laurel, nice 
little girls don’t talk about things of that sort! ” 
Until then Laurel had thought that perhaps she 
might ask her father. He liked talking about big 
things, about certain big things, that is — like beau¬ 
tiful music, and beautiful sunsets, and how wonder¬ 
ful nature is, and being honest and a good sports¬ 
man, and all that. But Laurel was shy with her 
father during the short periods she spent with him. 
She usually listened more than she talked. He al¬ 
ways introduced the subjects of their conversations. 
She’d sooner die in ignorance than to ask him a 
question that was n’t “ nice.” 


V, 


CHAPTER XI 

1 

When Helen Morrison caught the timid, butterfly¬ 
like little creature that Laurel was at thirteen, in 
her soft deft hands, and cautiously lifted one scooped 
palm from over the other, as it were, and peered 
into the dark, domed chamber to see what sort of 
creature was there, her interest was instantly 
aroused. She had never seen a little-girl specimen 
of Laurel’s sort — so composed and self-possessed 
in speech and manner, so at home in smart, up-to- 
date frocks, so skilled in smart, up-to-date sports, 
so familiar with smart, up-to-date beauty-shop se¬ 
crets — but underneath like a child who has lived on 
an island, alone somewhere, untold and untaught. 

“ She’s like a book I bought in Florence once,” 
Helen Morrison told Stephen one day, after Laurel 
had been visiting her. “It’s a beautifully bound book, 
in full leather, and hand-tooled, in old blue and gold. 
But its pages are blank. I bought it to write odd bits 
of poetry in. Yes. Laurel is a little like that — beau¬ 
tifully finished on the outside, but full of pages as 
white as snow that never have been written on.” 

2 

On a small table beside Helen Morrison’s bed 
there was a picture of a little girl whose pages also 
had never been written on. Often Helen Morrison 
would take the lovely little miniature of her dead 



STELLA DALLAS 


138 

child close to the strong light, and gaze at it hard 
and long, in a hungry attempt to recall how the soft 
cheek used to feel when she brushed her own against 
it, how the limp little body used to melt into her 
arms when she held it close. 

It was a beautiful baby’s face that smiled back at 
Helen from out of the ivory, but it was always a 
baby’s face. That was the pity of it. What would 
she have looked like to-day? (Oh, never to know. 
Never to know!) What strength and confidence and 
beauty would that weak little body have attained? 
What strength and confidence and beauty would that 
spark of fine intelligence, shining so steadily in her 
baby’s face, have kindled under her constant caring 
and tending? What had they both lost — this little 
daughter and herself, in way of rare companionship 
vind human love? 

Sometimes as Helen gazed at the picture, it 
seemed that she caught a wistful expression In the 
eyes, as If, she sentimentalized, her little girl had be¬ 
come tired of waiting, waiting, waiting, so long to 
grow up. It hurt, even after years it hurt Helen 
Morrison, to feel the stab of her uselessness to this 
child who had so trusted her. Oh, If she could only 
do something to rescue her from that eternal loveli¬ 
ness of babyhood — give her back the gift of life 
again, even though It might hurt her sometimes, even 
as life had hurt her mother. 

Helen Morrison had worshiped her gentle, flow¬ 
er-like little daughter. She had been more than just 
a precious baby to her. She had been a symbol, a 
manifestation, a gift from heaven. For years and 
years Helen Morrison had longed for something 


STELLA DALLAS 


139 

feminine of her own. She had never had anything 
feminine of her own. No sister, no mother. Her 
mother had died when she was born. Her father 
had never remarried. Helen had been brought up 
by nurses and governesses, under the strict regime 
of an elderly and masterful housekeeper. 

Helen used to plan by the hour what she would 
do for a daughter if she ever had one of her own. 
Even before she thought seriously about marriage, 
she built air-castles about that little dream-girl of 
hers. She should have all the joys and delights which 
her own childhood had lacked. She should be sur¬ 
rounded, day and night, by feminine tenderness and 
comprehension. She should have a friend always 
waiting for her at home, to play with her, or to work 
with her, to walk and talk with her, or to love pretty 
clothes with her, or pity wounded bugs with her, or 
to hold hands with her when it “ thundered and 
lightened.” Later, when life itself seemed to “ thun¬ 
der and lighten ” about her, there would still be 
somebody holding her hand, reassuring her, making 
facts lucid and clear, and truth beautiful. Helen had 
ideas about girls and what made for happiness in 
their lives. She would have filled the blank pages of 
her little daughter’s book full of inspired and lovely 
things. 

When that little girl was born, Helen Morrison 
had been married several years. She had already 
had two boys — fine sturdy specimens — but soldier- 
material, American business-man stuff. When a little 
girl, a little feminine creature of her own, was placed 
in the curve of Helen Morrison’s arm, she could 
not speak for joy. It seemed as if a bit of heaven 


140 


STELLA DALLAS 


itself had slipped through the clouds. Her cup was 
full and brimming over. That precious relationship 
that she had lost so long ago, the day she was born 
when her mother died, had been given back to her 
again I 

She spent two radiantly happy years with her 
daughter (Carol, she named her. It became the 
sweetest word in the English language to her), and 
then suddenly, with the arrow-like directness of a 
bolt of lightning from the skies, disease struck 
straight down into the holy of holies of her heart 
and killed her darling. By a mere accident the reali¬ 
zation of her lifelong hope was broken into frag¬ 
ments— disintegrated into a thousand poignant lit¬ 
tle memories. Her little girl became a dream again, 
an ideal, a picture on ivory. “ There were her boys.’* 
That is what people said in way of comfort. Yes, 
yes. Of course. Thank heaven she had her boys! 
But, oh, her boys must be made stalwart and bold, 
strong and tough-muscled. The image she would 
have modeled out of her bit of little-girl clay was 
to have been as graceful as poetry, as delicate as 
violin music, as perfect in detail, as fine and exqui¬ 
site as an etching. 

After Carol died, Helen Morrison offered her 
services to a certain charitable institution for work¬ 
ing-girls in New York City. She was living in New 
York then. She had been living in New York ever 
since she married. She thought, perhaps, if some¬ 
thing of the young and tender ideals she had had for 
Carol was given to other girls, then everything about 
her lovely baby would not remain in that state of 
undevelopment which hurt her so every time she 
looked at the miniature. 


STELLA DALLAS 


141 

It was soon discovered at the working-girls’ home 
that Mrs. Morrison possessed rare genius with girls. 
She knew just how to approach them — just how to 
talk with them. She could hold the attention of a 
whole roomful of factory hands reading poetry — 
Browning and Whitman — out loud to them, and 
telling them what it meant to her. She could interest 
a dozen lively little errand girls for an hour at a 
time, gathered around an ant-hill in operation, at the 
edge of one of her garden-paths at her summer 
place on Long Island. Frequently she had groups 
from the Home come out from the city during the 
summer, and spend a day with her in her garden, 
among the illuminating bugs and bees and flowers. 

Helen Morrison usually talked with her working- 
girls In groups. She seldom came in contact with the 
girls individually. That was probably why they 
failed to satisfy her, why they remained, always, 
simply a worthy charity dedicated to the memory 
of the little girl beside her bed. It was n’t until Lau¬ 
rel came to spend a week with Helen Morrison that 
she felt the same heart-string, which Carol had 
pulled so hard once long ago, gently touched again. 
It hurt a little at first — brought back the old pain. 
But It also brought back a little timid thrill of the old 
joy and ecstasy. 

There was something of the same pristine beauty 
about Laurel at thirteen as about her own child’s 
crystallized Innocence. There were areas in Lau¬ 
rel’s soul, big white expanses, untouched by experi¬ 
ence, unsullied by life. It was almost as If those parts 
of Laurel had disappeared into a picture also, when 
she, too, was just learning to walk alone. 


141 


STELLA DALLAS 


Laurel was nearly the same age as Carol. She 
was dark like Carol. Graver than gay, like Carol. 
She wore the same sort of clothes Carol would have 
worn. She had slept at night, it occurred to Helen 
with a little twinge, in the same bed where Carol 
would have slept, sometimes, now her father was 
gone. Even her name was something like Carol’s. 

After Helen Morrison said good-bye to Laurel at 
the end of her first visit, wrapped her own coat about 
her, tucked her in beside her father in the automo¬ 
bile, and laughingly, playfully kissed her good-bye, 
she hurried away quickly to her own room and closed 
the door. Taking the miniature close to the light, 
she gazed at it till the slow tears ran down her 
cheeks. 


CHAPTER XII 

1 

At the same moment that Laurel, high up above the 
rumbling traffic of New York, was packing her trunk 
on the last day of her never-to-be-forgotten visit to 
her father (never to be forgotten because of the 
wonderful Mrs. Morrison), Stella several hundred 
miles away, was also packing a trunk. 

There was no sound of traffic outside Stella’s win¬ 
dow, only the distant pound of the surf and a dis¬ 
tant glimpse of a deserted board-walk. By the end of 
September there were only three or four people left 
at the boarding-house at Belcher’s Beach. By the 
middle of September at least half of the amusement 
booths on the board-walk had been closed for the 
season. 

Stella had remained until the literal eve of Lau¬ 
rel’s return, because she had been very lucky this 
year, and had found a tenant for her rooms at the 
King Arthur for the month of September. Laurel 
could have her fur coat and wrist-watch, too, now I 
My, though, but Stella was glad her job was over! 
She did hate horrid places so, and horrid people, 
and run-down, second-rate boarding-house styles and 
customs — loud talk and loud laughter and loud 
women, and flies and dirt, and bathing-suits hanging 
out all the front windows to dry (that is, when the 
season was still on), and bathing-corsets, and batK- 
ing-garters. (“ Honest, Effie, you’d think some peo- 


144 


STELLA DALLAS 


pie had had no bringing-up.”) And all sorts of queer 
questionable things going on at night — doors open¬ 
ing softly and closing—whispers — giggles. The 
walls were like paper. Lord, she’d be glad to get 
away from Belcher’s Beach! Thank heaven, the 
four weeks were at an end. 

To-night she’d be sleeping at the King Arthur! 
To-morrow night Lollie would be sleeping with her 
at the King Arthur I She hummed deep in her throat 
as she packed. Nothing gave Stella the blue dol¬ 
drums like this month of Belcher’s Beach. Nothing 
gave her the spring-song feeling like release from it. 

This year Belcher’s Beach had n’t been quite so 
bad as usual, though. At least it ought not to have 
been. Ed Munn had done his best to brighten it up. 
Funny, though, Stella would be about as glad to get 
away from Ed as from the boarding-house. What 
ailed her? Ed had been ever so generous. Every 
single Saturday since Laurel had been away, and one 
Sunday, he had planned some diverting form of 
entertainment. It must have cost him a pretty 
penny I Stella was filled with remorse that she 
could n’t work up any real excitement over Ed. He 
was paying for “ all wool,” and deserved it, not the 
imitation stuff she gave him. It was all pretense with 
her when she returned his various little signs and 
signals. How pitiful to be so old one is n’t even 
tempted to flirt any more! How amazing to be so 
crazy about your own child that being crazy about 
a man loses all interest and excitement in compari¬ 
son. 

Sometimes, looking straight into Ed Munn’s little 
red hippopotamus eyes, trying her utmost to pay for 


STELLA DALLAS 


H5 

his expensive entertainment in the harmless coin that 
he liked best, the vision of Laurel would appear 
back there In the dark cavern behind her eyes, down 
there In the mysterious cave where her heart beat, 
like a sudden shaft of light. And the shaft of light 
would seem to be pointed like a sword, and pierce 
Stella. Her eyes would become suffused with sud¬ 
den tears, and tenderness. Dear dear Lollie, with 
her big gray eyes and her dark hair, and sharp- 
pointed, little-girl shoulders breaking through the 
hair as it fell to her waist, over her slim white body 
when she slipped off her nightgown in the morn¬ 
ing. Dear precious little Lollie! In a little while 
they would be together again! What a zigzagging 
thrill of joy the thought gave Stella I Good Lord, 
how she worshiped the kid 1 

2 

Once, when Stella’s eyes had become suddenly 
soft with the thought of Laurel, Ed Munn had mis¬ 
taken the cause of her emotion, and grasped hold of 
her hand, of her arm, of as much of her as he could 
reach across the small table that divided them; and 
that sort of mouth-watery look which always turned 
Stella’s pleasure In a man’s attentions to disgust — 
if he persisted In it — came into his eyes. 

It had been Stella’s Intention to keep up her mas¬ 
querade with Ed Munn to the end of the month (she 
did admire a good sport), but, my goodness, she 
was n’t a Sarah Bernhardt. Ed got terribly Insist¬ 
ent that day she let her mind trail off to Laurel. She 
simply had to come out with the truth. 

“ I’m sorry, Ed,” she sighed, as she drew away 
her hand with a little jerk. 


STELLA DALLAS 


146 

At that he simply imprisoned one of her feet un¬ 
der the table between two of his, and leaned towards 
her, his eyes still gobbling her up. 

She drew away her foot, too, and perched it safely 
on the rung of her chair. 

“ Nothing doing, Ed,” she shrugged. 

“ What’s the matter? ” he inquired. She had n’t 
shown squeamishness before. “ What’s got into 
you all of a sudden? ” 

“ I guess it’s age, Ed,” she confessed, “ and it 
is n’t all of a sudden.” 

He merely laughed at that and tried to grasp her 
hand again. But she would n’t let him. He frowned. 
Flushed a little. 

“ I don’t wonder you ’re mad, Ed.” 

“ I did n’t say I was mad.” 

” But you are n’t pleased, I guess. I know. Ed, 
listen. I don’t blame you a bit. I’m disgusted myself 
with the way I act, with the way I feel, or the way I 
don^t feel. But don’t, please, think it’s anything per¬ 
sonal. There’s no man living could get me really 
going now. It is n’t your fault. It’s Lollie’s. It’s 
that darned little Lollie’s fault! ” She brought out 
fiercely. “ I’m no good for anything any more Ex¬ 
cept to be her mother. I’m so crazy about Lollie 
that she uses up all the emotion I’ve got, so I’m just 
sort of dead ashes with everybody else in the world.” 

“ You ’re alive enough for me.” 

But Stella was deaf to flattery now. “ Ed,” she ex¬ 
claimed, ” I simply worship Laurel I ” And the ex¬ 
pression that forced its way through the make-up 
on her face had something sublime about it. A 
tear splashed down her cheeks. “ You see! ” She 


STELLA DALLAS 


147 

shrugged and shamelessly began to wipe her eyes. 
“ Oh, it makes me so mad! ” 

Ed Munn leaned over and patted her on the arm, 
big-brother fashion. 

“ That’s all right. That’s all right.” 

Stella blew her nose. “ I’m terribly sorry.” 

** You needn’t be. I’m satisfied. I’m not asking 
you to get excited over me. I like a woman all the 
better for being fond of her own kid.” 

” Oh, Ed, you are nice I ” She warmed towards 
him. 

” In fact,” he went on (he knew now what tack to 
pursue), ” the few times I Ve seen the offspring I Ve 
thought to myself, what a peach of a kid she was.” 

” Oh, she’s wonderful, Ed. I’d die without her! ” 
And again the tears welled up in her eyes. 

“ Sure you would I Well, I’ve no intention of kid¬ 
naping her.” 

You see, as Stella told Effie McDavitt after¬ 
wards, she and Ed had a perfect understanding, 

3 

When Stella paid her bill of indebtedness to the 
proprietor of the boarding-house at Belcher’s Beach, 
for allowing her to economize for a month on his 
property, it was with a feeling of triumph and with 
the comforting sense of a disagreeable job well done. 
There were those, however, who regarded Stella’s 
sojourn in a different light. Stella was blissfully una¬ 
ware that any one except Effie and Ed even knew 
of the sojourn, any one who had any connection with 
Milhampton. 

As the train sped along towards that city, at the 


STELLA DALLAS 


148 

end of her ordeal, she was happy with the simple 
joy of release. She smiled and her heart sang, auto¬ 
matically almost, a little as a kitten purrs when it 
comes In out of the rain and sees the warm fire on 
the hearth. She had no premonition of the nest 
of bombs lying In her letter-box among the other 
letters and communications that had arrived too 
near the date of her return to be forwarded. Stella 
had not seen the automobile standing on the oppo¬ 
site side of the street from the boarding-house at 
Belcher’s Beach the late Saturday night when Ed 
had brought her back and left her as usual at the 
foot of the stairs that led up to her room. She had 
not seen the same automobile the next morning on 
the Boulevard as she and Ed had started out for 
lunch In Boston. 

The day after Myrtle Holland and Mrs. Kay 
Bird had seen Alfred Munn follow Stella Dallas 
into the boarding-house — but had not seen him 
come out — they had driven to Belcher’s Beach 
again. Myrtle Holland was occupying a summer 
cottage, that year, thirty miles inland. She had 
never been to Belcher’s Beach before. It was only 
because the chauffeur had lost the road that she 
happened to be driving through such a place at all. 
Myrtle Holland wanted to inspect Stella’s boarding¬ 
house by daylight. She told Mrs. Kay Bird she 
wanted to point it out to her husband so he might 
look it up and see what sort of a place it was. 

It chanced to be over the only week-end of Laurel’s 
absence, when Ed Munn had both a Saturday and 
Sunday engagement with Stella, that Myrtle Hol¬ 
land and Mrs. Kay Bird made their two visits to 


STELLA DALLAS 


149 

Belcher’s Beach. On the second visit they had been 
almost as excited as on their first. They had seen 
Ed Munn and Stella Dallas again I The pair were 
leaving the boarding-house this time! It was eleven 
in the morning! It looked pretty bad, didn’t It? 

It looked still worse when Mrs. Holland called 
at the fashionable hotel, where Mrs. Kay Bird had 
heard Stella Dallas was spending the season, and 
discovered that Mrs. Dallas had n’t been there for 
three weeks I And that her forwarding address was 
care of a Mrs. Effie McDavItt, in a very queer part 
of Mllhampton, way down by the mills somewhere. 
Obviously Stella Dallas had done her best to cover 
up her tracks. Oh, wasn’t It all too shocking for 
anything? 

“ Probably those two have been carrying on their 
little affair, off and on, ever since the scandal about 
them when her husband left her. I would n’t believe 
then that she’d really gone the limit (I’m always 
slow at jumping to conclusions of that sort) ; but 
now, I do not see that we can very well help think¬ 
ing the worst. My husband says that Belcher’s 
Beach is full of questionable places. He did n’t care 
to go Into an Investigation of that particular one, 
but you could see by looking at It — so dirty, and 
run-down, and ramshackle — and by observing the 
women who came out of it, what sort of a place it 
was. Stella Dallas herself looked a little more 
common and ordinary than ever — paint just piled 
on, and that riding-teacher — Munn — has degen¬ 
erated terribly. Oh, It makes my blood boil to think 
that the mother of one of the girls, with whom our 
daughters associate daily at the little private school 


STELLA DALLAS 


150 

we Ve all supporting and protecting to the best of 
our ability, should be carrying on an affair of that 
sort with a man of that sort in a place of that sort. 
As one of the trustees of Miss Fillibrown’s School 
there’s only one course open to me. A thing like 
that cannot be known about a woman, and counte¬ 
nanced, can it?” 

“ Certainly not,” was the general dictum. 

“ I for one won’t countenance it anyhow,” an¬ 
nounced Mrs. Kay Bird, with emphasis. Either 
Mrs. Dallas moves out of the King Arthur or / do. 
I had to play bridge with her twice last winter I ” 

“ And either her child is removed from Miss Fil- 
librown’s or mine is,” another voice proclaimed. 

This conversation took place in Myrtle Holland’s 
living-room a few days after her return to Mil- 
hampton, in late September. There were half a 
dozen women gathered round the tea-table. 

“ But,” feebly observed one of them, “ there’s 
just a possibility that you ’re mistaken. Myrtle, is n’t 
there? ” 

“ Oh, sweet protector of the innocent, virtuous 
defender of the maligned,” laughed Mrs. Kay Bird. 

**My dear Mabel,” Myrtle replied, “there’s just 
a possibility a man who frequents corner saloons 
does n’t drink, but it’s rather slight, I fear; and any¬ 
how, whether he drinks or not, the fact that he en¬ 
joys the company and atmosphere of corner saloons 
is sufficient to bar him from certain drawing-rooms. 
Dear me, Mabel, have n’t we all endured Stella Dal¬ 
las years enough in this town to satisfy you? I, for 
one, don’t enjoy torturing animals even though some 
of them don’t seem to mind it very much. That 


STELLA DALLAS 


151 

woman is in for a lot of disappointments when that 
child of hers she’s always using, to boost herself into 
some sort of prominence, is older. The time has 
come, for her sake, as well as ours, to put an end to 
all further suffering.’’ 

“ The child seems quite a nice little thing.” 

“ But how long will she stay quite a nice little 
thing with a mother like that? Really, Mabel! ” 

“ And nice little thing or not,” spoke up some¬ 
body from the other side of the hearth, “ I’m sure 
I don’t want my son meeting her at dances, and 
things, as he grows up, and run the risk of having 
him fall in love with a girl with such a mother I ” 

“Oh, isn’t it sad?” deplored Phyllis Stearns, with 
a sanctimonious sigh, “ that women exist who care 
so little for their children as Stella Dallas? I used 
to know her very slightly, when she was first mar¬ 
ried, and before her child was ever born she didn’t 
want her. And now she goes off with a man like 
that! Oh!” 

“ Such a woman does n’t deserve to have a child,” 
exclaimed Mrs. Kay Bird, who had successfully 
avoided ever having had one herself. 

4 

Stella was safely in the haven of her two-rooms- 
and-a-bath at the King Arthur when she opened her 
mail. She had just come up from luncheon in the 
dining-room below, where she had greeted every¬ 
body she knew with her usual cordiality. “ Be it even 
an apartment hotel, there’s no place like home I ” 
she had laughed to Mrs. Kay Bird. “ Gracious, but 
this place seems good to me! ” she had thrown 


STELLA DALLAS 


152 

across to the young doctor who ate at the table next 
to hers; and to the two white-haired old ladies who 
occasionally asked her of an evening to make a 
fourth at auction, “ All ready for a game, any time,” 
she had exclaimed. 

She was still purring as she moved about the three 
rooms which were hers and Laurel’s alone, hum¬ 
ming in a low tone to herself, delighting in their 
luxury and their comfort, as she laid away her hat 
and veil and gloves, bag and umbrella, in their old 
familiar nooks and corners. 

She sat down on the edge of her bed to open her 
mail. There was a postcard from Laurel. She read 
that first. There was a note from Miss Simpson, 
verifying the hour of Laurel’s arrival. She read that 
next. After Miss Simpson’s note there were two an¬ 
nouncements of fall openings; a bill; a receipt; then 
suddenly occurred an explosion of one of the bombs! 
Miss Fillibrown regretted that, owing to the unex¬ 
pected increase of pupils in Laurel’s class, there 
would be no place for her next year! 

Stella’s low humming ceased abruptly. She read 
the note again. She read it a third time. She was 
aware of a certain familiar heart-burning sensation 
which usually followed announcements of this sort. 
No place for Laurel at Miss Fillibrown’s? Oh, that 
was cruel. There was no other private school in Mil- 
hampton. Laurel could n’t go to a public school. 
Nobody did — except foreigners. No place for Lau¬ 
rel at Miss Fillibrown’s! There must be some mis¬ 
take. But deep in her heart Stella knew there was 
no mistake. Experience had taught her there never 
was a mistake in the cruel stabs dealt her. 


STELLA DALLAS 153 

It was fully ten minutes before the second bomb 
exploded. The letter immediately underneath Miss 
Fillibrown’s was a note from the proprietor of the 
King Arthur. The proprietor of the King Arthur 
regretted that he would be unable to accommodate 
Stella the following season I He had rented her pres¬ 
ent apartment, he explained, to a party who had 
offered almost double what she was paying, and 
there would be no other space available. 

Stella got up and walked over to the window, 
folded her arms, as if to hold herself under better 
control, and stood staring out into the street be¬ 
low. What did it mean? What had she done? Why 
were people so unkind? What was to become of 
Laurel and herself? It was n’t as if there were other 
apartment hotels in Milhampton. The King Arthur 
was unique. The other places were boarding-houses, 
pure and simple. All sorts of people lived in them. 
She could no more take Laurel to a boarding-house 
than send her to a public school. Good heavens, this 
was a serious situation! Stella had received blows 
before, but the combination of these two, occurring 
both at once, and striking such vital parts of the 
anatomy of her social position in Milhampton, she 
knew would prove fatal. A wave of physical sick¬ 
ness swept over her. 

It was fully half an hour before the last bomb shat¬ 
tered the frail scaffolding of another of Stella’s air- 
castles. The last letter in her pile was from a lawyer 
in New York. The lawyer stated that he was writing 
for Mr. Stephen Dallas. Stella’s eyes skipped over 
the introductory sentences. She caught the word 
“ divorce.” Stephen wanted to get a divorce I 


STELLA DALLAS 


• 154 

Hope had never died that sometime she and Ste¬ 
phen might live beneath the same roof again. The 
possibility that when the golden harvest-time arrived 
when Laurel was old enough to come out, Stephen, 
too, would wish to give his child every possible ad¬ 
vantage, and resume at least the semblance of a 
conventional relationship with his wife, had been for 
years a sort of secret candle Stella would take out 
and light whenever it seemed dark. But a divorce, a 
separation would rob her of her candle. Besides, she 
could n’t say ‘‘ my husband ” any more, could she, to 
her friends and acquaintances? Nor refer to her 
husband’s absence as temporary. Oh, no one knew 
what a protection the uncertainty had been to her’ all 
these years. 

At one o’clock the next morning Stella lay wide 
awake in her bed beside Laurel’s empty one, tossing 
and turning in the darkness, reviewing the contents 
of each of the three cruel notes that had swept so 
bare her little hill of hopes, and left it bleak and 
desolate. At two o’clock she was still awake, and 
again at three she heard the chimes ringing in the 
Episcopal Church belfry, a half a mile away. At 
half-past three she got up and went into the bath¬ 
room. She poured herself out half a glass of gin, 
and filled the glass up with hot water from the fau¬ 
cet. She placed two sleeping-tablets on the back 
of her tongue and washed them down with the 
strong hot drink. 

Laurel was due to arrive the next morning at nine 
o’clock. Stella simply must pull herself together be¬ 
fore Laurel arrived. 


CHAPTER XIII 

1 

“ I SHOULD n’t think that Simpson woman earned 
her salt. She’s let your nails get into a terrible con¬ 
dition I ” scolded Stella. 

“ Oh, but Miss Simpson never does my nails, 
mother,” laughed Laurel. 

She and Stella were seated opposite each other 
at a card-table in their bedroom at the King Arthur. 
There was a bath-towel spread over the table. Lau¬ 
rel held the finger-tips of one hand in a bowl filled 
with warm water, while her mother worked over the 
other. It was early afternoon of the first day of 
Laurel’s arrival. 

Gracious, Laurel, this cuticle has n’t been pushed 
back once since you’ve been gone, I ’ll bet. I don’t 
know what will become of you if you don’t take more 
pains with yourself. These nails of yours are all 
split and broken to pieces.” 

“ But I’ve been camping, mother.” 

“ I should think you’d been mining, and using 
your fingers for pick-axes! ” 

A cat no more vigorously sets herself to work 
over the deplorable condition of her kitten after a 
visit to the coal-bin than did Stella over Laurel after 
her visit to New York and the Maine woods, 
“ where they lived like animals,” according to her 
way of thinking. 

Stella was thankful this time, with all her heart, 


STELLA DALLAS 


156 

that she could work over Laurel, for when she had 
anything to conceal it was always easier to talk to 
the funny little perceiving creature, if she could keep 
her eyes down close on some sort of fine careful job, 
like cutting a bit of cuticle, or filing a nail to just 
the proper arch. 

When the manicuring was well under way, Stella 
inquired, “ How is your father?” 

She always asked that question before Laurel had 
been back many hours. 

Laurel always replied, “ He’s all right.” 

“ Did n’t seem different any way? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Did n’t refer to me, I suppose? ” 

“No.” 

Laurel wished he would refer to her sometime, 
so she might tell her he had. 

“ Goodness,” exclaimed Stella, “ I should think 
he’d ask after my health once in a while! ” 

Laurel was silent. 

Stella applied the blunt end of a steel file to the 
half-moon just appearing out of the pink flesh of 
Laurel’s thumb. 

“ I should think he’d have some interest in my 
Welfare.” 

Still Laurel was silent. 

“ I never did anything to have him treat me as 
if I was dead.” 

“ You hurt, mother.” 

Stella laid down the file. But it was somewhere 
inside where Stella was really hurting Laurel. Lau¬ 
rel always suffered when her mother talked like that 
about her father. 


STELLA DALLAS 


157 

“ You’d think from the way he acts such a thing 
as a marriage ceremony had never taken place be¬ 
tween him and me.’’ 

‘‘ Mother,” Laurel interrupted — she must change 
the subject somehow — ‘‘ I’ve learned to use a shot¬ 
gun.” 

“ I hope, Laurel,” Stella went right on, ** you 
have more respect for the promises you make, than 
your father seems to.” 

Laurel made another desperate attempt. 

“ Oh, mother,” she exclaimed brightly, “ I saw 
that lovely lady again in New York.” 

' She was successful this time. 

“ What lovely lady? ” asked Stella. 

Laurel had been too busy so far answering her 
mother’s questions as to what restaurants and thea¬ 
ters she had visited in New York to tell her about 
Mrs. Morrison. 

“ The lovely lady who gave me my silver pencil.” 

“ Oh, yes, you met her at afternoon tea last year. 
I remember. You said she had on black broadcloth 
with broad-tail trimming then. What did she wear 
this time? ” 

“ She is n’t wearing black at all this year, but pal¬ 
ish colors when she dresses up that you think are 
white until you see her up against a white wall or 
something, and then you see they are n’t. They ’re 
usually pale yellow, or faint blue. She never wears 
pink.” 

“ Good gracious, how many different rigs did you 
see this person in? ” 

“Oh, lots!” 

She had not referred to Mrs. Morrison in her 


STELLA DALLAS 


158 

letters to her mother. That was not strange. Laurel 
was not fluent with her pen. Her letters were la¬ 
bored little notes, usually, that mirrored her person¬ 
ality imperfectly. Laurel’s father used to say he 
could scarcely catch a glimpse of Laurel in the stilted 
notes she wrote to him. Once Laurel had tried to 
write to her mother about Mrs. Morrison, but Mrs. 
Morrison was like the Maine woods. There was so 
much to say that you just did n’t know what one or 
two things to choose to cramp into half a dozen 
proper little sentences that must begin with a capi¬ 
tal, contain a subject and a predicate, and end with 
a period. 

“You’d love her clothes, mother,” Laurel now 
went on. “ She’s got the loveliest negligee, she’s 
got two or three lovely negligees, but I think my fa¬ 
vorite was a yellowish one, made of a most beauti¬ 
ful crepy stuff, with not a speck of trimming on it 
anywhere.” 

“Negligee!” exclaimed Stella. “Did she spend 
the night with you? ” 

“ Oh, no, I spent the night with her. I spent al¬ 
most a whole week of nights with her, while father 
was in Chicago.” 

“Oh, you did, did you?” said Stella, speaking 
thickly through an orange-stick which she held be¬ 
tween her teeth. Stella often used her mouth to hold 
small tools, when she sewed or manicured. Lucky 
for her now! A sudden suspicion had shot up and 
gripped her in the throat. The orange-stick helped 
to disguise the tenseness in her voice. “ That was a 
funny arrangement, I should think.” 

“ I did n’t want to go a bit, at first,” said Laurel. 


STELLA DALLAS 


159 

** I was frightened at the thought of visiting a stran¬ 
ger. But I need n’t have been. Mrs. Morrison was 
perfectly lovely to me! ” 

“ Oh, she was, was she? How? ” 

“ Just every way there is to be lovely. For one 
thing — she thought I had lovely clothes, and that 
you had awfully good taste. She said so. She talked 
about you, mother. She thought you must be sim¬ 
ply beautiful when I told her what you looked like.” 
“ What does she look like ? ” 

“ A little like an Indian Pipe,” said Laurel re¬ 
flectively. “ That’s a sort of flower that grows in 
dark places up in the Maine woods. It has n’t got 
any color at all.” • 

“ Oh, gracious. I mean is she tall or short, dark 
or light, fat or thin. I don’t care what kind of a 
flower she looks like*” 

“ Well,” Laurel began slowly, methodically. 
She’s dark — at least her hair is — and tall — at 
least she looks tall until you see her beside some¬ 
body taller like father — and slim, and cool-looking 
and pale — oh, ever so pale. And the queer thing 
is, she does n’t use any rouge at all. She does her 
hair,” Laurel went on, “ with only five hairpins, and 
no net. And once I saw her put soap right on her 
face! And she goes out in the broiling sun and lets 
it beat down on her without any veil or sunshade, 
or anything.” 

“What’s her age?” 

“ She does n’t seem to be any special age. She’s 
like one of those goddesses in my Greek Mythology 
Book that way.” 

‘ “Oh, come. You can tell me whether she’s 
twenty or forty, I guess.” 


i6o 


STELLA DALLAS 


“ Oh, she’s not forty I She can touch her fingers 
to the floor without bending her knees just as well 
as I can. We tried it one morning. And she rides 
horseback, and swims and plays tennis and golf. 
Father said she could almost beat him at golf. I 
guess she’s about twenty-five.’* 

“ Oh, she and your father play golf sometimes.” 

“ Sometimes.” 

“ How in the world did your father become ac¬ 
quainted with this goddess?” Stella inquired, in as 
light a tone as she could muster. “ Happen to 
know? ” 

“Yes, and it’s like a story. Father found her 
in Central Parkl He saw her there riding horse¬ 
back one day. He was on a horse, too. She passed 
him. He did n’t like to run after her, and try to 
catch her, so he went by another path, and cut her 
off when she came round a curve later on. Con told 
me about it.” 

“Who’s Con?” 

“ Con is her oldest son.” 

“ Oh, son! Married is she? ” 

“ She used to be. Her husband is dead now.” 

“ Oh, dead, is he? That’s convenient,” murmured 
Stella. 

“ Oh, no, it is n’t. It is n’t a bit convenient. Mr. 
Morrison left a whole lot of money and horses and 
houses and things, and Mrs. Morrison has to look 
out for them all alone. She says she would n’t know 
what to do without father to help her and advise 
her.” 

“ Oh, I see, I see.” Stella was still polishing, still 
keeping her voice light and inconsequential with the 


STELLA DALLAS 


i6i 


help of the steadying orange-stick. “ A whole lot of 
money and horses and houses, has she? And what 
house did you visit her at? ” 

“ I visited her at her house on Long Island. Oh, 
mother, it’s wonderful! It has a beautiful lawn and 
garden all around it, and on the first floor out of all 
the rooms there are long windows, like doors, which 
are always kept open, so you can walk out onto the 
grass any time, just as easily as walking out from 
underneath a tree. Upstairs in the house there are 
the loveliest bedrooms and little tiled bathrooms 
hidden away like jewels on the inside of a watch. 
And all the bedroom doors stand open all day. No¬ 
body ever thinks of locking the bedroom door. And 
in the pantry off the dining-room there’s a big tin 
box with rows of thin cookies on each shelf. You can 
take one whenever you Ve hungry. Sometimes you 
can go into the kitchen and make candy! Oh, 
mother,” Laurel broke off, “ would it cost too aw¬ 
fully much for us to have a house all of our own 
somewhere — not a great big expensive one, like 
Mrs. Morrison’s, but a little tiny one with a front 
door that’s just ours, and a dining-room that’s just 
ours, and a warm sleepy-looking kitchen that’s just 
ours, where I could make candy sometimes (Mrs. 
Morrison and I made fudge one rainy day in the 
kitchen), and a guest-room so I could ask girls to 
come and stay all night with me sometimes? Mrs. 
Morrison asked a girl my age, whose mother she 
knew, to come and stay with me one night. And she 
came, and when she went she asked me to come and 
stay all night with her!'' (No girl had ever asked 
Laurel to stay all night with her before.) But I 


i 62 


STELLA DALLAS 


could n’t because I had to go back to New York the 
next day. I hated to go back to New York to Miss 
Simpson. Mother, next to you I think Mrs. Morri¬ 
son Is the loveliest lady I ever saw.” Laurel’s voice 
actually trembled. 

Stella removed the orange-stick from her mouth 
and laid it down on the table beside the buffer. 

“ There,” she said, “ how do those look? ” And 
she held up Laurel’s fingers for her to see. She spoke 
harshly. She had to or the child might discover the 
tremble in her voice too. 

Laurel gave the fingers a hasty glance. “ They ’re 
all right,” she remarked. Then dropping her hands 
on the bath-towel, and gazing out of the window, 
she added, and a glow stole Into her eyes — into her 
voice also, “ Mrs. Morrison has the most beautiful 
hands — long and white and slim like the rest of 
her. I wish I could have hands like hers! ” 

2 

Stella got up and went into the bathroom. She 
closed the door and locked It, then turned on both 
faucets, so that Laurel would think she was busy 
washing up. She stood staring at herself in the mir¬ 
ror over the wash-stand, while the water gushed into 
the basin. 

Laurel had never glowed about a woman before. 
Stella did n’t know what to make of it. It perplexed 
her. It hurt her. It hurt her more than the possi¬ 
bility that Stephen might be glowing about the same 
woman. Who was she, anyway — this tall myste¬ 
rious siren, who was bewitching LoHie with her 
youth and beauty and prosperity, buying the kiddle’s 


STELLA DALLAS 


163 

affection, by bestowing luxuries and attentions upon 
her in a single week which Stella would give her eye¬ 
teeth to be able to give Laurel in a lifetime. 

Laurel was sensitive to beauty, Stella was aware 
of it — cruelly aware of it, as she stared at herself 
in the mirror before her. She saw all the tiny wrin¬ 
kles. She saw the coarseness and the flabbiness 
She saw the unmistakable yellow cast of color. 
It was as definite now as that of a white China silk 
waist after half a dozen washings. Good gracious, 
how could she hope to compete with a woman of 
twenty-five? It seemed lately as if nothing would 
cover up the defects and blemishes for any length 
of time. Often within so short a period as half an 
hour after she had left her bedroom, glancing into 
some unexpected mirror, she would discover the hor¬ 
rible old look sneaking out of hiding. A wave of 
discouragement swept over Stella. She had never 
required youth so much as now. 

She pulled open the door to the medicine-closet 
in the wall beside the wash-stand with a determined 
jerk. She produced a large jar of cold cream, and 
began smearing great globs of it over her face. “ A 
cold-cream bath, and a good hot steam is what you 
need,” she announced to her reflection, and with a 
practiced rotating motion she proceeded to mas¬ 
sage cheeks, chin, neck, and forehead vigorously, fu¬ 
riously; admonishing herself the while in the mirror 
— exhorting, and inciting with fresh courage. 

This was n’t the time to lie down and submit. 
What if the world was treating her like a bunch of 
cruel boys a dog — kicking her from all sides, all at 
once ? She must n’t put her tail between her legs and 


STELLA DALLAS 


164 

yelp and hug the ground. She must stand up and 
bristle her back, and snarl, and show her teeth, if 
necessary. And she would, too! Oh, there was a lot 
of fight left in her yet. 

She did n’t know exactly how a dog managed to 
fight so many boys at once. No sooner did she con¬ 
sider lowering her head to offer resistance to one of 
her tormentors than another hit her from behind. 
Seemed as if. Really, within the last twenty-four 
hours it seemed as if everything in the way of sharp- 
cornered missiles had been thrown in her direction, 
and struck her somewhere. It was confusing. It was 
alarming. But she must n’t show she was confused 
or alarmed. Lollie must n’t guess. Good Lord, no! 

Half an hour later Stella emerged from the bath¬ 
room, with all her war-paint on. Her cheeks were a 
little rosier than usual, her eyebrows a little more 
distinctly emphasized, and her lips a little more defi¬ 
nitely bowed. 


3 

Three days later Stella took the early morning 
train to Boston, “ to do a little fall shopping,” she 
told Laurel, but really to meet Mr. Morley Smith, 
the lawyer who had written to her from New York 
about the divorce. Mr. Smith had suggested in his 
letter that he would like a personal interview with 
Stella. Stella had replied that she would meet him 
at the appointed hour, at the office of the Boston 
law firm which he had mentioned. 

You may be sure she had on all her war-paint 
when she sallied forth that morning, all her war- 
feathers too. She had selected a costume of wide 


STELLA DALLAS 


165 

black-and-white striped foulard in which to combat 
this particular adversary (the stripes wound sleekly 
around her. She resembled a zebra somewhat), and 
she had made herself as formidable as she knew how 
with all her loudest finery. A hat with sharp futurist 
angles, a shadow veil that hung unsecured and diaph¬ 
anous to her shoulders; pearl ear-rings, filbert size; 
around her neck a long noisy chain of imitation am¬ 
ber beads. Her shoes were French-heeled, and 
steel-buckled. She carried several dangling articles 
on her left wrist that clattered every time she moved 
her hands. 

When she was ushered into the private office 
placed at Mr. Morley Smith’s disposal, he had to 
make an effort not to allow himself to betray his 
amazement. Stephen had not prepared him for any¬ 
body of this sort. The truth is Stephen himself 
would have been surprised at Stella’s appearance. 
In the days when he had advised plain dark dresses, 
and no decorations, she had not used rouge, lip¬ 
sticks, and eyebrow pencils. She had n’t needed to. 
Stephen did n’t take into account that there had been 
no one to advise Stella since he had given up the 
enterprise, no friend or protector to care what mis¬ 
takes she committed during that critical period when 
her volatile prettiness began to evaporate like ether 
into air. 

As Morley Smith drew up a chair and asked Stella 
to be seated, he looked at her closely and catalogued 
her forthwith. Morley Smith had known Stephen 
Dallas for years. How could he ever have married 
this woman? How could any man, who was at¬ 
tracted by the gentle, genuine charms of Mrs. Cor- 


STELLA DALLAS 


166 

nelius Morrison (and had been attracted by them, 
too, according to his story, before he ever met this 
Stella Martin), have contemplated matrimony with 
such an absolute antithesis? What a Quixote Ste¬ 
phen Dallas must have been, in spite of his insistence 
that he had married the pretty Normal-School stu¬ 
dent of his own free will and in the pursuit of happi¬ 
ness. 

“ I am glad, Mrs. Dallas,” Mr. Morley Smith be¬ 
gan from his high place of authority in front of the 
flat-topped desk, glancing across to Stella in her low 
place at the side of the desk (three feet and an arm¬ 
chair make all the difference in the world), “that 
you found it convenient to meet me here to-day. It is 
so much more satisfactory to talk a matter of this 
kind over quietly together.” 

“ Oh, that’s all right,” said Stella. She wished 
her chair had a deep seat and arms so that she could 
lean back and assume a position of command. 

“ It is my hope,” Mr. Smith went on suavely, 
** that I may be performing a service for both you 
and Mr. Dallas in arranging this affair without pub¬ 
licity, to your mutual satisfaction. I want you to 
feel, Mrs. Dallas,” he smiled, “ that I am here, not 
only as Mr. Dallas’s friend and attorney, but as 
your friend and attorney, too.” 

“ I don’t need any attorney,” said Stella. 

“ I agree with you, you do not. This affair should 
be, and can be settled without contest — between 
ourselves. That is your husband’s wish, too. He and 
I have gone into the details of this matter and there 
lies open to us a line of procedure, which, if pur¬ 
sued, will cause almost no unpleasantness, as far as 
you are concerned.” 


STELLA DALLAS 


167 


“ And what’s that? ” 

“ Why, you are to bring suit against Mr. Dallas 
for desertion. He will not contest the grounds of 
your suit, and the divorce will be granted without 
disagreeable controversy.’’ 

“ I don’t want a divorce,” said Stella. 

“Really?” Mr. Morley Smith raised his eye¬ 
brows in surprise. “ Surely, you want your separa¬ 
tion of seven years’ standing legalized, do you not, 
and enjoy the advantages thereof?” 

“ I don’t want a divorce,” Stella repeated. 

“ The word has an unpleasant sound for some 
women, I know,” Mr. Smith smiled. “ It should n’t. 
Let me explain. Perhaps you have n’t thought in de¬ 
tail just what the benefits would be of a settlement 
of the relations existing between you and Mr. Dal¬ 
las — just what hardships you are inflicting upon 
yourself, unnecessarily, in allowing them to continue 
in their present state.” 

And in the next ten minutes he laid out before 
Stella, as attractively as he knew how, all the line 
arguments, moral, social, and financial, for her con¬ 
sideration, that he possessed. 

But his display apparently made no impression 
upon Stella. For when he had finished all she said 
was, just as if she hadn’t been listening, “I don’t 
want a divorce, and,” she added, “ what’s more I 
don’t intend to have one.” 

Mr. Morley Smith frowned and shrugged. 
Then, balancing the tips of his elbows on the arms 
of his chair, and the tips of the fingers of his left 
hand nicely against the tips of the fingers of his right, 
he said, “ That’s a pity.” 


i68 


STELLA DALLAS 


“ I’m sorry to disoblige Stephen, I’m sure,” said 
Stella, shrugging too. 

“ I meant a pity for you,” flashed back Mr. Smith. 
And the smile and suave manner had disappeared. 
“ Mr. Dallas can obtain his divorce without the least 
difficulty in the world, by another method. Don’t 
have any doubt on that point. But the other method 
will not be exactly to your liking, I fear,” he an¬ 
nounced, fastening his keen shrewd eyes upon Stella. 
“ I always feel sorry for any woman,” he went on, 
“ whose mistakes and misdemeanors of a dozen 
years are dragged out by opposing lawyers from the 
little hiding-places where she thought they were safe, 
and held up for the curious public to gape at and 
glory In. Your husband, Mrs. Dallas, in allowing 
•jou to bring suit against him. Instead of the other 
way round. Is acting chivalrously. He is offering you 
an avenue of escape.” 

“ I don’t want any avenue of escape,” Stella re¬ 
torted. “ I tell you I don’t want a divorce.” 

Really it was annoying. Mr. Morley Smith 
could n’t make the least Indentation on her. 

“ It looks to me, Mrs. Dallas, as if you will be 
obliged to have a divorce whether you want it or 
not.” 

“ I don’t know why. I don’t pretend to know 
anything about the law, but I’ve got some common 
sense, and I never heard of a woman’s being 
forced to get a divorce from her husband because 
he happens to want to go and get married again. 
Stephen does want to get married again, does n’t 
he?” 

“ That’s entirely a side Issue In this case, Mrs. 
Dallas. I am unable to inform you.” 

V 


STELLA DALLAS 


169 


“Well, he does. I know he does.’* 

“ I should think under the circumstances he would 
wish to feel free to marry again.” 

“ Well, he can’t do it, and that’s all there is to 
it. You can go back to New York and tell him that 
I refuse, with thanks, his chivalrous offer. Gracious. 
I don’t call it exactly chivalrous for a man to walk 
off and leave his wife for seven years, and then, 
when he gets good and ready, give her the privilege 
of suing him for a divorce, so he can go and marry 
a rich young widow, and kick the high spots with 
her.” 

“ You will, then, as I said before, force Mr. Dal¬ 
las to bring suit against you.” 

“ I never deserted him.” 

“ No, your offense is graver.” 

“ I never knew what my offense was. I’ve been 
ransacking my brain for seven years to find some 
good reason for Stephen’s clearing out the way he 
did.” 

“ Oh, come, Mrs. Dallas,” half-laughed, half- 
sneered Mr. Morley Smith. 

“ What do you mean by that? ” 

“ Don’t try and pretend innocence with me. I’ve 
handled too many cases of this nature, dealt with 
too many women placed in your unenviable position. 
It won’t work.” 

He looked straight into Stella’s eyes, as he spoke, 
piercingly, drillingly. It was a horrid look. It was a 
look not to be endured from a man who was your 
enemy. Stella could feel the blood throbbing up 
into her throat. 

“ Are you trying to be insulting to me somehow? 


STELLA DALLAS 


170 

Mr. Morley Smith’s sneer deepened. “ That’s 
right. You’re acting consistently. It’s quite the 
right tack — surprise, indignation, rage, tears, con¬ 
fession finally. Mrs. Dallas, allow me to spare you 
further attempt at evasion. I have facts — unalter¬ 
able, unescapable facts. You were seen.” He low¬ 
ered his voice. “ You were seen at Belcher’s Beach,” 
he brought out. 

“Well, what of that?” flashed Stella. 

“ You were seen at the boarding-house, with 
Munn,” he added, still keeping his sword-pointed 
eyes upon Stella. 

Oh, so that was it! That was why there was no 
room for Laurel at Miss Fillibrown’s! That was 
why the proprietor at the King Arthur had rented 
her apartment. 

“ Oh, what a rotten, rotten world I ” she ex¬ 
claimed. 

Mr. Morley Smith shrugged and looked away. 
There was a silence. Then, “Well, you understand 
me, now, I think. You have your choice. Think it 
over. Either the generous escape Mr. Dallas offers, 
or the public exposure of acts you have taken such 
pains heretofore to conceal and cover up.” 

Stella stared at Mr. Morley Smith speechless, 
helpless for a moment. Every word he uttered, 
every glance of his eyes, every pharisaical shrug of 
his shoulders shamed and degraded her. She would 
simply have to get out of his presence, or she would 
do something horribly common and crude to him, 
like slapping him in the face, or calling him some¬ 
thing unladylike, like a cur or a skunk. She stood up. 

“ I’m going,” she said. 


STELLA DALLAS 


171 


He stood up too. He smiled. 

“ You will cooperate with us, then? You will ac¬ 
cept our proposition? ” 

“ Cooperate? Accept your proposition? No, I 
won’t. I ’ll fight! That’s what I ’ll do. I ’ll prove 
to the world whether I’m guilty or not of the filthy 
things rotten-minded people have said about me. 
And I’m glad of the chance, too. I hope Stephen 
will sue me for a divorce. I said I did n’t need a 
lawyer, when I first came here, but I need some¬ 
body to defend me against such a pack of muck- 
rakers. Why, Mr. Smith, I have no more done the 
thing you come here and accuse me of doing than 
your own wife, or, if you ’re not married, your own 
mother, or the woman you honor the most in this 
world, whoever it is, and I ’ll get the best lawyer in 
this country to prove it.” 

Behind the belying paint and elaborate make-up 
the white image of this woman’s innocence stood out 
before Morley Smith clear and defined, for an in¬ 
stant, like a white-sailed ship, when the fog lifts a 
moment — a white-sailed ship in distress. He saw 
it. He recognized it. He turned away from it. 

“ You ’re going through the usual motions, Mrs. 
Dallas,” he commented with another sneer. 


CHAPTER XIV 


1 

The same chaste charm that pervaded Helen Mor¬ 
rison’s summer home was even more striking in her 
New York house. A feeling of space and fresh air 
is more of a triumph in the city than in the country. 
In both Helen Morrison’s houses there was delicious 
freedom from deleterious overcrowding of posses¬ 
sions beneath a roof. She knew how to make walls 
backgrounds, instead of boundaries, as unconfining 
as the sky behind a mountain, or the sea behind a 
sail. Yet neither of her houses could be called large. 
Much as nature conforms itself equally happily to 
decorating a mountain-side, or a salt-water pool no 
larger than a baptismal font, so Helen conformed 
herself instinctively to whatever proportions were 
offered her. Never for the sake of displaying some 
beautiful work of art would Helen disturb the nice 
equilibrium and fine composition of a room. Never 
were the space and air rfecessary for the spiritual 
well-being, as it were, of one rare treasure robbed 
for another. She possessed a nice sense of harmony, 
too. She could no more have placed Tiffany glass be¬ 
side old luster than have mixed people of discordant 
instincts at her dinner-table. This discernment was 
not acquired. It was as effortless with her as breath- 
ing. 

When she married Cornelius Morrison and came 
as a very young bride to the New York house, filled 


STELLA DALLAS 


173 

with its chaotic collection of treasures picked up 
from all over the globe, not only by her widely trav¬ 
eled husband, but by his father before him, she felt 
little of the delight which beautiful things had given 
her before. On the contrary, she was possessed of 
an incessant desire to escape them, to get outdoors, 
and breathe deep, and look upon broad spaces. 

Finally she asked her husband if he would object 
if she cleared out just one of the rooms in the house 
of every single thing that was in it. He told her she 
could clean out the whole house, for since Cor- 
Melius Morrison had obtained her, his other treas¬ 
ures had sunk into trivial insignificance. Therefore 
Helen Morrison had had the entire top floor of the 
house built into a single room which she called the 
Museum, and into which she moved the wealth of 
two generations of collectors. 

Cloisonnee no longer rubbed shoulders with Co¬ 
penhagen in the Morrison drawing-room, nor futur¬ 
ist touched frames with early Italian. Such jarring 
juxtapositions gave Helen somewhat the same feel¬ 
ing of displeasure that a discord on the piano gives 
to a sensitively musical child when he is still too 
young to understand why. Helen Morrison could 
understand her recoil but imperfectly. She knew little 
about schools and periods and values in art in its 
various forms when she married Cornelius Morri¬ 
son. She warned her husband that she was an expert 
judge concerning only the merits of table-linen, lin¬ 
gerie, and flat silver. But he soon discovered that 
if an article was really fine and genuine, the some¬ 
thing fine and genuine in his wife recognized it and 
responded to it. He made her curator of the Mu¬ 
seum without hesitation. 


STELLA DALLAS 


174 

Underneath the Museum, Cornelius Morrison’s 
house was like a barn at first. At least so the aunt 
who had lived with Cornelius before he married 
told Helen, when she saw it. 

Helen had exclaimed, “Isn’t it? All beautiful 
space and shadows, and room enough to dance a 
spring song in, if you feel like it.” 

The house did n’t remain long like an empty barn, 
however, though according to the aunt it never 
seemed “ like a really furnished house.” 

Helen spent hours browsing in the Museum, as¬ 
similating it slowly, piece by piece. Gradually vari¬ 
ous treasures began appearing in the rooms below. 
When Helen discovered, or believed she had, an af¬ 
finity between some empty niche downstairs and one 
of the objects of art in the Museum, she united them 
with delight. “ Trial marriages,” she called them 
humorously to her husband. Many of them proved 
permanent, but there were certain corners, tables, 
old chests, and secretaries, “ that enjoyed a constant 
state of polygamy,” she laughed, “ that adjusted 
themselves happily to various of the temperamental 
objects of art in the Museum.” 

You never could be sure what would be the domi¬ 
nant note in the long room with the old-ivory tinted 
walls in the front of the house. This room was 
Helen’s own. Here, she changed the ornaments as 
she would the flowers, with every changing season 
and mood. Therefore there were few of the ob¬ 
jects of value in the Museum that, one time or an¬ 
other, did n’t descend to the rooms below. 

Cornelius Morrison discovered his collection all 
over again. As Helen isolated one piece of it after 


STELLA DALLAS 


175 

another and placed it in a sympathetic environment, 
he was constantly finding new beauties in form and 
line and color, heretofore unseen. He liked to boast 
that he had never enjoyed his collection until Helen 
came with her unerring intuitions. She gave it new 
birth. Helen gave new birth to everything he pos¬ 
sessed. He told her that she gave new birth to Am, 
too. 


2 

Helen had known Cornelius Morrison ever since 
she was a little girl. He was her father’s friend —■ 
not so old as her father by a decade or so, but a 
younger brother of the same generation. He used to 
come occasionally and spend a night in her father’s 
house in Reddington, on his way farther west, or 
else on his way back to New York from some pro¬ 
tracted journey to China or Japan. He was one of 
the few honored guests for whom the wine-glasses 
were always produced and the little liqueur set. 
Helen used to examine his baggage in secret — his 
umbrella, his overcoat, his toilet articles — for they 
were permeated with the same vague fascinating 
cosmopolitanism of which she was aware whenever 
he opened his mouth to speak. In those days he was 
“ Mr. Morrison to Helen. He was “ Mr. Mor¬ 
rison ” to her up to the day she told him she would 
marry him. One of the hardest things she had to do 
was to learn to call him Cornelius. 

Helen spent the first half-dozen years of her long 
boarding-school career in a small town in Connecti¬ 
cut. But she finished her education at a boarding- 
school in New York. Judge Dane wrote to his friend 


STELLA DALLAS 


176 

Cornelius Morrison, when Helen went to New 
York, and asked him if he would look up his little 
daughter sometime, and see if she seemed happy in 
her new environment. 

Cornelius Morrison was very kind to the little 
daughter. He became a sort of fairy godfather to 
Helen and her group of friends at the New York 
school. He sent them flowers. He sent them candy. 
He gave them theater-parties, and afternoon-tea- 
parties, and college football-parties—all properly 
chaperoned, all properly discussed and arranged 
with the mistress of such affairs at the school. 

Helen was old enough to appreciate that Mr. Cor¬ 
nelius Morrison was something of a personage in 
New York (her friends left her in no doubt on that 
point), but she was not old enough to appreciate 
that the friendship between Mr. Morrison and her 
father scarcely warranted so much time and thought 
spent in her entertainment. She accepted his atten¬ 
tions with enthusiasm, and with the simple joy of a 
child accepting the bounty of a generous Santa 
Claus. He bestowed them with no more thought of 
return. 

Cornelius Morrison had never married. In spite 
of the prominence of his name and family in New 
York, he had always been shy with women. Helen 
and her friends were an entirely new adventure to 
him. He became very fond of Helen Dane. At first 
he believed he was fond of her as he might have been 
fond of a younger sister, and he mourned the fact 
that he had been an only child. Later he believed 
he was fond of her as he might have been fond of 
a daughter, and he mourned the fact that he had 


STELLA DALLAS 


177 

never married. Then suddenly Cornelius Morrison- 
discovered that he was fond of Helen — that he 
loved Helen — as only a man can love the woman he 
wants to make his wife. And she was nineteen, and 
he was fifty-two I 

He started for India a few weeks after his dis¬ 
covery. He did n’t return for three years. When he 
came back he stopped off at Reddington as was his 
custom when returning to New York from the Far 
East. His old friend, Judge Dane, had died during 
his absence — he had been dead a year — but he 
wished to pay respect to his memory and also to find 
out if the little daughter, who had finished school 
now, was well and happy. 

He was disturbed about the little daughter when 
he saw her. The death of her father must have cut 
deep. She had suffered. This tender creature was 
still suffering, Cornelius Morrison believed. It 
struck him, as he sat opposite her at dinner in the 
big ponderous dining-room where he had often sat 
opposite her father before, that she was like an 
abandoned kitten in this great empty place, with only 
paid caretakers to see that she was fed. 

After dinner in the drawing-room he said to her, 
“ Helen, I believe you are lonely here.” 

Calmly, with no tears (Helen had shed all her 
tears), with no raising of her voice — she might 
have been a woman of forty who spoke — she re¬ 
plied, “ I am lonely, Mr. Morrison, and I am un¬ 
happy, too. I wish I could leave Reddington for¬ 
ever. There’s absolutely nothing for me here now.” 

A wave of tenderness swept over Cornelius Mor¬ 
rison. A wild delirious hope sprang alive within his 


STELLA DALLAS 


178 

heart. Could it be that he had anything to offer 
Helen that she wanted? 


3 

Cornelius Morrison had arrived in Reddington 
a few months after the Dallas tragedy. He had re¬ 
appeared in Helen’s life at a time when every wak¬ 
ing moment was dull pain to her, and the days and 
the months and the years stretched ahead of her like 
a long, dark, drear road with a blind end. 

Helen Dane had loved the son of the man whose 
last act had cast such a shadow upon the boy who 
bore his name. Helen had loved Stephen from the 
first time he had come to call on her the night after 
the dance her father had given her when she re¬ 
turned to be the young mistress of his house. He had 
danced with her half a dozen times that evening. He 
had claimed her for “ Home, Sweet Home.” Well, 
who had a better right? They had known each 
other as children, years before they went East to 
school. Their fathers served on several same 
boards of directors together. During “ Home, Sweet 
Home ” Stephen asked Helen if he might “ call.” 
Such was the custom in those days. He was return¬ 
ing to his law school shortly. He asked if he might 
call the next evening, that is, if she was going to 
be at home, and if she had n’t too many other book¬ 
ings. She was going to be at home. If she had other 
bookings, she cancelled them. Stephen found her 
alone. 

They sat in Judge Dane’s big quiet drawing-room, 
one on each side of the rose-shaded table-lamp and 
discussed such impersonal subjects as the football 


STELLA DALLAS 


179 

game in New Haven last November, and the boat- 
race on the Thames last June, and the plays they 
had seen last spring in New York, and the places 
they had dined and danced there; and Shaw and 
Ibsen and Arnold Daly and Nazimova. It was a 
typical call for that era. Helen had carried on con¬ 
versations of the same sort with many a young man 
before. But never had her hands been cold, and 
her face hot, and never had she lain awake after¬ 
wards for three hours and a half. 

The truth was that Helen, with the same unerring 
instinct that later guided her in recognizing kinships 
between objects of art, was aware of something of 
the sort between Stephen and herself on her first eve¬ 
ning alone with him, and it was exciting. It was n’t 
only that they were both young, with traditions that 
were not dissimilar, and tastes and ideals that were 
not antagonistic. For such was the case between 
Helen and many of the young men she had met. It 
was something deeper, more vital. Why, even when 
this Stephen disagreed with her, now and again, as 
he had that first evening, she had experienced as 
sharp — as glowing a sense of pleasure, as certain 
sharp contrasts in color gave her. No. It was n’t that 
Stephen was like her, any more like her than a cup 
is like a saucer (but one without the other is in¬ 
complete— broken) or the tallow candle like the 
silver stick to hold it (but one is the perfect comple¬ 
ment of the other, even though made of such differ¬ 
ent stuff). 

Stephen also had been awake a good many hours 
of the night after his first call on Helen. He 
would n’t have been, probably, if he had been in his 


i8o 


STELLA DALLAS 


own bed at home, instead of on the train speeding 
East. (Stephen was less given to contemplation than 
Helen.) But every time a stop, or jolt, or sudden 
application of brakes shook him awake, he was con¬ 
scious of Helen Dane. “ By George, she’s a pretty 
girl ” — “I ’ll write to her to-morrow ” — “I ’ll or¬ 
der her some flowers as soon as I reach Boston ” 
— “I’m going to see something more of that 
girl. She has beautiful eyes — and a brain too ” — 
“ I don’t know when I’ve met such a girl ” — “I 
wonder if she ’ll want to settle down in Reddington.” 

The world took on a new interest and significance 
for Helen after that. The sound of the mailman’s 
whistle would often make her heart jump up in the 
region of her throat. The sight of a certain shaped 
envelope on the hall table, sometimes bearing two 
and three stamps in its corner, would fill her with 
such a choking wave of emotion that she couldn’t 
answer questions coherently until she had closed 
herself in her room and had devoured the letter’s 
contents. And why not? Wasn’t it written by the 
man she was going to marry (though he might not 
yet be aware of it), and didn’t it discuss thrilling 
things about religion and philosophy, and art and 
music, and all sorts of foundation-stones of a life 
together? 

They didn’t refer to that life together in their 
letters, not directly. They did n’t refer to it at Eas¬ 
ter-time when the discussions continued by the rose- 
shaded lamp. Of course not. Stephen’s education 
was not finished yet. He had a whole year and a 
half at the law school still before he could even start 
upon a self-supporting career. But Helen was not 


STELLA DALLAS 


i8i 


impatient. She liked prolonging the sweet advea- 
ture. It could n’t possibly come out but one way. 
Stephen’s eyes had told her over and over that she 
was the only girl in the world for him, and her eyes 
had replied, shiningly, mistily, that she knew it — 
she knew it and was glad! At least she thought that 
was what his eyes had said. She thought he under¬ 
stood what she had replied. 

When his father did that awful thing, Helen’s love 
for Stephen burst into a blinding desire to help and 
comfort and share. Her own father had died a few 
months before. She was alone in the world. If Ste¬ 
phen had need of her, she had need of him, too. She 
must tell him so when his long torturing journey 
home was over and he came to her. 

Helen waited for three days for Stephen to come 
to her. Finally, convinced that he was waiting for a 
sign from her, she stole out quietly, one evening, by 
herself, and called at the Dallas’s big brown house, 
shrouded in its silent and solemn horror. She stood 
on the doorstep and rang the bell, and without ex¬ 
planation asked for Stephen. He was out. She left 
her card with a hasty pencil message written on it, 
“ Please come over to-night. Helen.” But he did n’t 
come. 


4 

Helen did n’t see Stephen Dallas again until one 
day, fifteen years later, sauntering along one of the 
bridle-paths of Central Park, she glanced up and 
there he was standing before her (on horseback 
also) with his hat off, smiling and saying, “ Do you 
remember me ? ” 


i 82 


STELLA DALLAS 


Her heart had jumped up into her throat in the 
same old young way it used to at sight of him a life¬ 
time ago. 


5 

When Helen told Cornelius Morrison that she 
would marry him, she felt that Stephen was as defi¬ 
nitely lost to her as her father. When the doctor 
had come to her just after her father had died and 

said, “ It is all over,” his words were no more final 
*<» 

than Stephen’s letter, which Helen received a long 
three weeks after she had called at the Dallas house. 
The letter was in answer to her note of consolation. 
For Helen had written to Stephen an outburst of 
sympathy at the first possible moment. 

He thanked her for her note in a formal punctili¬ 
ous manner which she scarcely recognized. He 
thanked her for the card she had sent over to the 
house at the time of the funeral. He appreciated her 
kindness in offering to see him, but it was difficult for 
him to talk to his friends. He had left Reddington 
forever. He never wanted to see Reddington again. 
He was going away — very far away, to Austra¬ 
lia, possibly, where he was unknown. He was thank¬ 
ful that Helen’s and his friendship was still in its 
infancy. He was thankful he had formed no busi¬ 
ness alliances. He was thankful that his father’s act 
cast no sha'dow of shame on any one outside his own 
immediate household. 

Helen read Stephen’s letter until every word of it 
was graven on her heart. Then she put it away and 
faced the world without him. There was no recall¬ 
ing him. One cannot recall that which one has never 


STELLA DALLAS 


183 

had. One cannot pursue that which does not exist. 
Stephen was aware of no special bond, of no insolu¬ 
bility. That which to her had been one of those rare 
relationships that occur once in a long, long while 
in various groups and communities, had been to him 
but a “ friendship in its infancy.” He classed it with 
a dozen others. She was just a girl he had fancied 
for a season. 

6 

There was only one small light to relieve the 
darkness of Helen’s solitude that winter. She had 
always loved children. One of her aunts had a little 
girl — a baby barely three, who took a fancy to 
Helen. The baby would clamber up into her arms, 
and cuddle down contented like a kitten in the sun. 
When Helen told Cornelius Morrison that she 
would marry him, it was with the distinct image of a 
little girl of her own, clambering up into her arms 
and cuddling down contented. 

When he asked her when she would like to be 
married (he waited a whole week before he 
broached the question: not for anything would he 
frighten Helen, would he seem to hasten her), she 
replied, “ I would like to be married soon, within a 
few weeks.” 

Her voice did not waver. The pallor of her cheeks 
was as steady as that of a petal of a white rose. It 
w^as Cornelius Morrison who was trembling. He 
could scarcely trust himself to speak. A few weeks! 
Did she know what marriage meant? He didn’t 
think so. Well, he would never teach her. It would 
be more than he had even hoped for, just to have 


STELLA DALLAS 


184 

her to be kind to, to take care of for a little while. 

“ I ’ll do my very best to make you happy, Helen,” 
he said quietly. 

There was something in his voice that struck 
through the wall of Helen’s personal suffering be¬ 
hind which she had shut herself for so long. She 
leaned toward him. She grasped one of his hands 
with both of hers. 

“ I ’ll do my best to make you happy, too,” she 
said fervently. 

Neither of them ever forgot their promise. 


CHAPTER XV 

1 

Although Cornelius Morrison was always aware 
he was not the perfect mate for Helen, and Helen 
observed her marriage with wide-open and seeing 
eyes, they both did much to enrich and beautify the 
life of the other. All happy marriages are not 
‘‘ made in heaven,” Helen discovered. Some are the 
result of wise human effort, and long steady adap¬ 
tation. 

Cornelius Morrison was thirty years older than 
Helen. He was never free from the fear that some 
day a younger man, a more appropriate comrade 
for his wife, might supplant him in her affections. If 
a younger man devoted an evening to Helen, if she 
seemed to respond to his attentions with interest and 
vivacity, a deep melancholy would take possession 
of Cornelius Morrison — unreasonable, perhaps, 
but uncontrollable and terribly painful. 

Helen needed no explanations. With her intui¬ 
tion she saw as clearly as through a microscope into 
the reason for her husband’s occasional waves of de¬ 
pression. Not for anything in the world would she 
hurt him. She might not love him in the romantic 
way that she had loved Stephen. She knew that 
she did n’t; but there was something fine and untar¬ 
nished to be preserved about their relations, beside 
which passing and personal pleasures were trivial 
and unimportant. She became as careful to spare 


STELLA DALLAS 


186 

her husband the secret ignominy of jealousy as to 
guard her children from groundless fears and pre¬ 
monitions. In spite of her youth, in spite of her nat¬ 
ural impulses, she avoided all intimacies that might 
even indefinitely disturb Cornelius. 

With gentle consideration, too, she abandoned all 
forms of pleasure that emphasized the difference in 
their ages and placed him at a disadvantage. Corne¬ 
lius spoke no word of complaint on the several occa¬ 
sions when she danced half the night away on a ball¬ 
room floor while he waited for her in a smoky ante¬ 
room, but quietly, without comment, Helen gave up 
dancing after a little while. Cornelius liked to give 
dinners. Helen learned to like to give them. Cor¬ 
nelius liked to go to the opera. Helen learned to 
like to go to the opera. Cornelius liked to ride 
horseback. Helen learned to like to ride horse¬ 
back. It was when Helen was riding horseback in 
Central Park one morning alone that she met Ste¬ 
phen Dallas. 


2 

When Stephen had said, “ Do you remember 
me? ” Helen had replied with a little puzzled look, 
as if she wasn’t quite sure, “You’re Stephen Dal¬ 
las, are n’t you? ” 

“You know I’m Stephen Dallas,” he exclaimed 
in the old sure way with her he used to have. 

There was joy in his eyes. There was gladness in 
his voice. He had the queer sensation that the inter¬ 
vening years since last he saw this girl were a bad 
dream, and he had just waked up, as keenly respon¬ 
sive to her as the day he lost consciousness. 


STELLA DALLAS 


187 

He leaned over and they shook hands. The sort 
of ecstasy swept over Stephen that any victim of a 
nightmare feels when he returns to the realm of 
realities and his physical contacts register properly. 

They exchanged a commonplace or two — Helen 
sweetly, but coolly. Stephen with an impetuosity he 
did n’t try to conceal. 

“ I saw you, half a mile back,” he confessed. 
“ You passed me. I did n’t think at first it could be 
really you. Chance is n’t usually so kind to me. By 
the time I had decided it could n’t possibly be any¬ 
body else, you had gone too far ahead for me to 
overtake you with proper park decorum. So I’ve 
been contriving ever since how I might head you off. 
Again chance has favored me. You might have made 
half a dozen wrong turns. Or, perhaps it was n’t 
chance at all. Perhaps it was mental telepathy.” 

To this boyish outburst of Stephen’s Helen re¬ 
plied, still sweetly, still coolly (long practice had 
made her skillful), “I’m delighted we met, but I 
scarcely think it was due to mental telepathy. I 
let my horse choose the turns this morning. I usually 
ride with my husband and we always come this way.” 

“ Oh, I know you ’re married, Helen,” laughed 
Stephen boldly, as much as to say, “ I suppose you 
think I ought to be told, I seem so glad to see you.” 

Helen was not to be perturbed by boldness. She 
was not a young girl to betray a pounding heart 
which she had reason to wish to conceal. 

Politely, calmly, she inquired, “ Are you living in 
New York now? ” 

He nodded, smiling. (What a beautiful woman 
she had become I) 


i88 


STELLA DALLAS 


“ If two rooms in bachelor’s apartments is living, 
yes, I am,” he said. 

“ Have you been here long? ” 

“ Three years.” 

“Three years? Really I” She raised her lovely 
brows. 

“ Oh, people may say the world’s a small place, 
Helen,” Stephen exclaimed. “ But New York is n’t. 
I’ve been trying for three years to run across your 
path, and I have n’t succeeded until to-day! ” He 
simply could n’t resist being personal with her at 
every turn. 

Helen replied prosaically, “Well, I’m glad 
we’ve met at last. It’s always a pleasure to see 
any one from Reddington.” 

She was almost convincing. Stephen looked at her 
sharply. Was it pretense, or was she actually una¬ 
ware of any special significance in this meeting? 
“ Don’t you remember the talks we used to have, 
Helen?” he asked. 

“ Why, of course,” she answered him, but she 
managed to sound more tactful than honest. 

Stephen looked into her well-remembered eyes. 
“ I’ve never forgotten them,” he told her quietly. 

Helen would not give him the slightest sign of 
response. 

“ I suppose,” she went on serenely, “ like most 
young people of our time we tried to settle all the 
weighty questions of the day, didn’t we?” 

Stephen felt a pang of disappointment. The years 
since last he saw Helen had not been a dream. They 
were real — every one of them was real, and Helen 
was as far removed, as beyond recall, as his youth. 


STELLA DALLAS 


189 

There she sat opposite him, graceful, lovely, beauti¬ 
fully poised upon her horse (beautifully poised in 
speech and manner, too), as impervious to him as a 
picture. She looked at him kindly, graciously, but 
disinterestedly as if he were a part of the landscape. 
He turned away from her tranquil face. 

“ You must come to dinner with us some day,” 
he heard her saying in that cool, smooth, impersonal 
voice of hers. 

“ Thank you very much,” he replied perfunctor- 
iiy, not looking back at her. Oh, he, too, could be 
cool and smooth and impersonal if that was what 
she really wanted. 

3 

It was what she really wanted. When he dined 
for the first time at the Cornelius Morrison’s there 
were half a dozen other guests present. He sat no¬ 
where near his hostess, nor did she give him any 
chance for conversation after dinner. It was always 
like that. As time went on, Stephen was frequently 
in the same drawing-room with Helen, and often 
one of the same party, but she always contrived to 
avoid all opportunity for intimate conversation. 

Stephen was hungry to talk to Helen. He had no 
intention of making love to her. She need n’t have 
been afraid. He was scarcely less free than she. He 
simply wanted to sit occasionally, for short periods, 
in an outer circle of the warm sunshine of her radi¬ 
ating sympathy. But she would n’t let him. Her in¬ 
sistence upon a purely impersonal basis of inter¬ 
course made anything but the merest superficialities 
impossible. 


190 


STELLA DALLAS 


When Cornelius Morrison met Stephen Dallas, 
he took a fancy to the young man. They had sev¬ 
eral interests in common. Cornelius and Stephen 
went on a fall fishing-trip together six months after 
Stephen met Helen in Central Park. Stephen was 
often at Helen’s house after the fishing-trip. Corne¬ 
lius would bring him home to dinner unannounced. 
After dinner the two men would play long games 
of chess in the library, while Helen read to her boys 
in a room above. Of course Stephen saw Helen 
alone sometimes, but never for longer than a passing 
moment or two. Helen always had something to 
call her away. And during those passing moments 
or two she was always clothed in her armor. 

Stephen made no attempt to pierce that armor. 
Convinced that it was not only her wish, but her de¬ 
termined resolve to treat him merely as a friend of 
her husband’s, to whom she extended the courtesies 
of her position, but nothing more, he acquiesced. He 
even tried to help her. Finally Stephen avoided all 
chance for intimate conversation with Helen as 
delicately and adroitly as herself. Through Helen’s 
skillful management Cornelius Morrison never ex¬ 
perienced a moment of the cruel suspicion that he 
was unwelcome in the company of these two crea¬ 
tures so many years younger than himself. 

For over half a dozen years Stephen came and 
went to and from the Morrison home. He was con¬ 
stantly moving before Helen’s eyes — vivid and 
alive, but, as far as she was concerned, apparently 
divested of all reality. 

When Cornelius Morrison died, and suddenly 
Helen was released from all fear of hurting him. 


STELLA DALLAS 


191 

she did not immediately alter her attitude towards 
Stephen Dallas. Habit was so strong — or was it 
respect for Cornelius that was so strong? — she con¬ 
trived to maintain with Stephen for many months 
the same remote relations which she had established 
when her husband was alive. 

Stephen had a great deal to do in settling Cor¬ 
nelius Morrison’s affairs. Cornelius Morrison had 
concluded that, of all his friends who were members 
of the bar, Stephen Dallas, who had known Helen 
as a child, could work with her to the best advan¬ 
tage. He named Stephen as one of his trustees. 
Therefore Stephen and Helen were necessarily 
alone together frequently. 

At first Stephen treated Helen as she had indi¬ 
cated she wished to be treated. He was almost for¬ 
mal with her unless the children were present as a 
safeguard. It was difficult to strike a happy medium 
after Stephen had been alone in Helen’s presence 
for longer than half an hour. For he loved her! He 
believed he had loved her ever since that day he had 
met her in Central Park, and his own eagerness and 
joy at sight of her had so startled and surprised him. 
No. He believed he had loved her longer. Occasion¬ 
ally a look would pass between Helen and himself 
— a vague, indefinite look that recalled to Stephen 
the picture of a girl sitting by a rose-shaded lamp, 
and a boy opposite her toying with a little bronze 
which he had picked up from the table near by. Ste¬ 
phen believed he had loved Helen ever since that 
first night in Judge Dane’s drawing-room! 

When for the first time Stephen pursued one of 
those vague illusive looks, gazed straight at Helen 


192 


STELLA DALLAS 


In the gray depths of her eyes, and by sheer mind- 
energy captured that will-o’-the-wisp impulse that 
had drifted like vapor between them, she had drawn 
in her breath quickly and her eyelids had flickered 
and closed for a moment; and color, ever so faint, 
ever so indefinite, had tinged her cheeks. 

It was no picture of a girl that Stephen saw then! 
It was the girl herself! She was not the wife of 
Cornelius Morrison. She was his, to love and to 
win! And again Stephen had the queer sensation of 
waking up from a bad dream. Again his father’s 
suicide, the black days that had followed, Milhamp- 
ton, the boarding-house, the little red cottage and 
Stella, were all parts of a nightmare. Helen alone 
was real. She was made for him. She was meant 
for him. All that had happened to prevent nature’s 
plan was a mistake, an abortion. 

At the time of Helen’s betrayal of her real feel¬ 
ings for Stephen, he made no comment. He seemed 
not to notice the sharp intaking of her breath, the 
faint color, the closed lids. He began talking quickly 
about a certain exchange of property they had been 
discussing. And he left her very soon. Stephen 
made up his mind he would not speak a word of 
love to this beautiful woman until he was free to do 
60, with no fear of casting reflection upon her repu¬ 
tation. 

Divorce, public acknowledgement of failure in the 
most sacred department in a man’s or a woman’s life, 
had always seemed hideous to Stephen. But was n’t 
it the failure, after all, that was hideous, rather than 
the acknowledgment? His and Stella’s failure had 
already been demonstrated. They had already made 


STELLA DALLAS ig^ 

the slow embittering descent from confidence and 
hope to doubt and despair. For years their mar¬ 
riage had been absolved. To place the law’s de¬ 
cree upon dead hopes is not the saddest part of the 
experience. It is not the required death notice in 
the city’s records that remains graven forever in the 
memory of the watcher by the bedside. Thus Ste- 
phen reasoned. 


4 

It was in September, shortly before Laurel’s first 
visit at Mrs. Morrison’s, that Stephen called on his 
friend Morley Smith and started proceedings for a 
divorce. It was in January when Stephen came to 
the definite conclusion that there was only one way 
that he could obtain a divorce; and that one way 
would defeat the object for it. 

Stella was as firm as adamant. Every form of ar¬ 
gument that Morley Smith could think of, every 
variety of persuasion that he could devise, had been 
brought to bear upon her, but to no avail. Stella 
would not comply. “ If Stephen wants a divorce 
he will have to fight for it,” was her invariable an¬ 
swer. 

Stephen’s hands were tied. It was unthinkable 
to expose in court the tawdry and unbeautiful details 
of his life with Stella before he went to New York, 
to unbury for the delight of a greedy public her com¬ 
promising relations with Alfred Munn. He might 
be granted a divorce (Morley Smith assured him 
that he would), but of what use would it be to him? 
Helen’s position as Mrs. Cornelius Morrison must 
be considered. She had always looked upon it as a 


STELLA DALLAS 


194 

sort of trust. Besides, there were her boys. They 
should not be made victims of such a scandal. And 
there was Laurel. No. A divorce obtained in such 
a manner was out of the question. 

As a last resort Stephen had gone to see Stella 
himself. It was after that ordeal that he felt con¬ 
vinced that he could never marry Helen Dane. He 
went to her as soon as possible after he had left the 
Boston train to tell her of his defeat. He stopped 
only long enough at his rooms to change, and then 
hastened directly to her house. 

It was nearly twelve o’clock at night before he 
arrived. As he sat down in the long room two floors 
above the entrance, he felt a little faint. Helen was 
not in the room, but it was so peculiarly hers that 
he could hardly breathe its air lately without feeling 
her sweet presence. To-night there were fresh logs 
flaming in the open fireplace. There was a flame-col¬ 
ored porcelain bowl, placed on each of the chests 
on either side of the hearth. There was a piece 
of flame-colored brocade, brilliant as a bank of nas¬ 
turtiums, thrown over one end of the long Sheraton 
sofa. 

When Helen came into the room Stephen was 
aware that she was in pure white, but there was 
something as brilliant about her, as flame-colored, 
as the two bowls, as the brocade, as the fire. 

He gazed at her speechless a moment, then went 
to meet her. He put his arms around her and kissed 
her. 

Afterwards he said quietly, “ They ’re numbered, 
Helen.” And she knew that what she had read in 
his eyes when first she entered the room was true. 


STELLA DALLAS 


195 

She slipped a firm, steadying arm through his, and 
guided him to the sofa. They sat down side by side, 
on the flame-colored brocade. He kissed her again. 

In spite of his high resolve to hold himself in re¬ 
straint, until the law had pronounced him free, he 
had not done so. As long as there had been hope 
that he might go to Helen unentangled, some day, 
he remained silent. But when that hope had grown 
faint, had all but disappeared, brokenly, despair¬ 
ingly, one day, he had confessed his love to her. 
That was a month ago. His confession had acted 
like a lighted match on paper. Once Stephen re¬ 
vealed himself to Helen, her love for him, long con¬ 
cealed, but long realized, flashed into flame, like the 
combustion of a long-stifled fire once it is given air. 

As she sat beside him on the sofa, to-night, her 
arm thrust through his, she observed with fierce pity 
his drooping shoulders, his hand lying limp and inert 
upon his knee. She placed her own on top of it and 
grasped it hard. 

“ Never mind, Stephen.” 

“ There’s no hope.” 

“ I know. We scarcely expected it so soon.” 

“ Oh, it’s final, Helen.” 

There was a pause. 

“ Do you care to tell me about it? ” 

Stephen shook his head. It seemed to him sacri¬ 
lege to bring even the image he had of Stella in his 
mind into this room. So long as he remained in 
Helen’s presence, he wished he might erase from 
his brain the memory of the interview he had just 
had with the woman who had one day been his wife. 
(Was it possible that she had one day been his 


STELLA DALLAS 


196 

wife?) Stephen closed his eyes an instant. Stella, 
powdered, painted, perfumed, coarsened in speech 
and manner as he did n’t suppose it possible, her fat¬ 
tened figure covered with cheap trappings from head 
to toe, flashed into his field of vision. He looked 
down at Helen’s lovely hand. Stella and Helen were 
as unlike as a wax figure, with highly colored cheeks, 
glass eyes, and blond hair, is unlike a statue of a 
beautiful Diana carved in white marble. 

“ You saw her? ” 

“ Yes, I saw her.” 

There was another pause. 

Gently Helen withdrew her arm and got up. Of 
course as long as she sat so close to Stephen he could 
not talk to her. She shoved up her little armchair 
opposite him and sat down in it. 

“ Now, Stephen, tell me about it.” 

Tell her about it? Repeat to her the threat Stella 
had hurled at him? No! Helen must never surmise 
that her fair name had been mentioned, even by an 
unscrupulous lawyer as a corespondent in a divorce 
case. For such had been the nature of Stella’s 
threat. 

It had been torture to Stephen to sit in Stella’s 
presence and listen to her using Helen’s name fa¬ 
miliarly, daring to refer to her in the same breath 
that she referred to Alfred Munn. Stephen closed 
his eyes again an instant. He could hear Stella still. 
Her speech had grown terribly crude with the years. 

“ Thank heaven for lawyers, I say now. Gra¬ 
cious ! I’d never have thought myself of getting 
something on you, Stephen, but my lawyer has been 
right onto his job. He’s been down there to New 


STELLA DALLAS 


197 

York, and he says that I Ve got as much grounds 
to do a little naming as you have. So if you want 
a divorce, Stephen, go ahead and dig up Ed Munn, 
and I ’ll dig up Helen Morrison and we ’ll give the 
public something worth reading. Of course, I, my¬ 
self, don’t want a divorce. There’s nobody I want 
to marry. I’d see myself dead rather than tied up 
to Ed Munn. And I can’t see that it’s any advan¬ 
tage to a woman with a daughter she’s got to bring 
out in society to be a grass-widow. I’d just rather 
have you in New York, on business, the way you’ve 
always been. I’ve taken an apartment in Boston 
now, and by the time Laurel’s old enough to come 
out, it may strike me as a good idea to have her 
father in the background somewheres, when we give 
her a ball at one of the big hotels. Mr. Hinckly, my 
lawyer, says you ’ll probably want to do about any¬ 
thing I want you to, just so I don’t show up your 
little affair with that pretty widow down there in 
New York. My! But I think lawyers are clever. I 
certainly take off my hat to Mr. Hinckly.” 

It was Helen’^s sweet voice saying, “ You have had 
a difficult day, Stephen. I’m so sorry,” that called 
Stephen back to a brief glimpse of heaven again. 

He looked at her long and quietly. Then he said, 
‘‘ Helen, I gave you up years ago, because I felt I 
could bring you nothing but shame. I must give you 
up again for the same reason.” 


CHAPTER XVI 
1 

A NEW venture always acted upon Stella like fresh 
soil in a garden upon seeds. It brought out renewed 
effort and vigor. An experiment untried possessed 
all the possibilities of success. Stella never consid¬ 
ered failure until it was demonstrated. Even then 
she would not accept it as such — invariably search¬ 
ing for some hidden advantage in her various disap¬ 
pointments and rebuffs. Even when she had the 
daunting situation of a forced exile to face, she kept 
right on spinning her thread of optimism like a spi¬ 
der rudely ejected from her web, falling dizzily at 
first, but quickly recovering herself and fastening 
her slender cable to the first solid support that of¬ 
fered itself. 

“ You never can tell,” she said to Effie McDavitt. 
“ It may be the best thing in the world that ever 
happened that there was n’t any room for Laurel 
at Miss Fillibrown’s this year, and that I’ve got to 
get out of the King Arthur. I’d gotten into the way 
of thinking that the sun rose and set in Milhampton 
society. I’m going to take an apartment round Bos¬ 
ton somewheres! A housekeeping apartment. Lol- 
lie is just crazy to have a home of our own, so she 
can ‘ entertain,’ and I guess it’s high time. Mercy, I 
just wish I’d had sense enough to get out of Mil¬ 
hampton before. The town has always had it in for 
Laurel and me, ever since Stephen cleared out.” 


STELLA DALLAS 


199 

Stella did n’t know anything about apartments in 
Boston. She did n’t know anything about where 
“ the right place was to live,” nor “ whom the right 
people were to know,” nor which was the “ right 
church,” nor the “ right school.” Her knowledge of 
Boston was confined to the shopping district. 

“ But that’s where this flare-up with Stephen 
comes in handy,” she told Eflie. “ Before I had to 
dig up a lawyer to defend me against that Morley 
Smith creature, I did n’t have a soul in Boston to 
ask advice about desirable locations, and desirable 
schools and things, that you have to know about to 
start right in any new place.” 

Mr. Joseph Hinckly, of the firm of Hinckly, Jones 
and Hinckly, became to Stella more than a mere le¬ 
gal adviser. His knowledge of Boston was some¬ 
what confined too, although not to the same district 
as Stella’s. However, he never hesitated to give her 
an authoritative opinion on any subject if she asked 
for it. That was instinctive with him. 

When Stella inquired, “ Commonwealth Avenue’s 
one of the best residential streets, is n’t it? ” he had 
assured her there was nothing to compare with it 
this side of Riverside Drive. 

“ Well, I’ve found an apartment on Common¬ 
wealth Avenue, way out beyond the thousands, and 
its front windows are just flooded with sunshine.” 

“ Snap it up quick,” exclaimed Mr. Hinckly. 
“ The sunny side of Commonwealth Avenue I Great 
Scott! You can’t do better than that! ” 

Mr. Hinckly was fully aware that the distance be¬ 
tween one and one thousand in some instances, in 
some streets, is as great as between one side of the 


200 


STELLA DALLAS 


globe and the other. (He himself had been born at 
the wrong end of a fashionable street, he once said 
in a political speech.) But he was also fully aware 
that his client might live in the very heart of the 
Back Bay and barriers more forbidding than space 
would prevent her from ever crossing its thresholds. 

Stella moved into her five-roomed furnished 
apartment just before Christmas. She still pos¬ 
sessed some of the old knack in copying department- 
store window effects. But it had been a long time 
since she had had ‘‘ her eye out for that sort of 
thing.” With no one to guide her, and the matter 
of expense a constant argument for the cheaper ar¬ 
ticle, her results were not successful. As Laurel 
gazed upon the slowly growing tawdriness of the 
apartment, the joy she thought she would feel in in¬ 
viting the vague new friends her mother told her 
she would make in her new environment, once they 
got settled, began to fade. 

The living-room was furnished in Mission of the 
Roycroft Style — big oak chairs with leather cush¬ 
ions; a rectangular couch, leather-cushioned also; a 
table that was strong enough to be used for a car¬ 
penter’s bench. And all in spite of the fact of a two- 
toned light-green, satin-finished wall-paper of the 
1890 “parlor period,” and an ivory-tinted mantel, 
which, mongrel though it was, showed more strain 
of Adam than of Elbert Hubbard. 

Stella put yellow-flowered cretonne at the win¬ 
dows. She told Laurel that she had seen a colored 
picture of a Mission room, in a magazine with yel¬ 
low-flowered cretonne for hangings, and it was per¬ 
fectly stunning! She knew where she could get some 


STELLA DALLAS 


201 


yellow-flowered cretonne for only ninety-eight cents 
a yard as effective as linen at six-fifty. But the hang¬ 
ings did not make the room right. Laurel felt con¬ 
vinced at last that the room would never be right. 

One afternoon, when her mother was out shop¬ 
ping, she tried to give it just a little of the same look 
that Mrs. Morrison gave her rooms. But it was 
hopeless. Afterwards she wandered through the 
apartment gazing upon all its details with despairing 
eyes. 

The kitchenette with its piled-up breakfast and 
dinner dishes, waiting for their nightly washing 
(Stella kept no maid, and she had her own way of 
keeping house), suggested to Laurel little of the 
homeyness of Mrs. Morrison’s big roomy kitchen, 
basking in the afternoon warmth of a great black 
stove, the table spread with a bright red cloth, and 
a cheerful, broad-faced clock ticking lazily on the 
mantel. 

The Boston apartment was very little like the 
“ home all of our own ” of Laurel’s dreams. There 
was no garden. There was no lawn. There was no 
front door with a knocker, and a single bell. The 
only difference, as far as Laurel could see, between 
an apartment and a hotel was that in an apartment 
you ate your meals in your own rooms instead of 
downstairs, and it wasn’t against the rules to use 
the gas for cooking. 


2 

Laurel did n’t like Boston. She did n’t know of 
a single winding river, over which to glide upon 
skates, in and out among alder bushes; nor of a 


202 


STELLA DALLAS 


single bare hillside, white with the first snowfall, 
down which to fly into the sunset, upon skiis; nor of 
any stone wall to follow for pussy-willows in March; 
nor rocky pasture-land nor rough woodland, to steal 
away to, all alone, in April, in search of trailing ar¬ 
butus. 

She did n’t know of any corner store where sta¬ 
tionery was sold and pencil boxes and return balls 
and jackstones, and gumdrops, seven for five cents, 
and cocoanut cakes, three for two. She did n’t know 
of any hump-backed cobbler, whose tiny shop 
smelled deliciously of leather and was such a cheery 
place to visit when school was over and her mother 
was out. Jake, the hump-backed cobbler, would bow 
and bob at her like a Rip Van Winkle dwarf, when¬ 
ever she came into his little box, and sweep off a 
place with his grimy shirt-sleeve for her to sit down 
upon, and chuckle and spit, and tell her stories about 
what his father used to do when he was drunk. 

Laurel missed Jake. She missed Tony, too — the 
black-haired, olive-skinned young Greek, who kept a 
fruit store, and gave her a plum or a pear, or a ba¬ 
nana, not the least bit rotten, whenever she went to 
see him; and, smiling, showing his beautiful white 
teeth, told her about the lovely dark girl in Athens, 
waiting for him to send her a ticket to come to 
America and marry him. 

She missed Mrs. McDavitt, who had so many 
children, and lived in Cataract Village in the top of 
a tenement house, whom her mother used to take 
her to see occasionally of late — but whom she must 
never refer to, any more than to her grandfather — 
the queer, glum, ragged old man, who lived all alone 


STELLA DALLAS 


203 

in a little reddish house, which her mother called 
“ that hovel,” on the edge of the river, whom occa¬ 
sionally, also, of late, her mother used to take her 
to see. She missed Sadie, the chambermaid at the 
King Arthur, and Michael Dolan, the policeman; 
and Jim Doherty, the mailman, who knew her fa¬ 
ther’s handwriting; and “peg-legged Eddy,” who 
sold pencils and shoestrings at the corner of Main 
and Depot Streets. Laurel missed all her Milhamp- 
ton friends. For Laurel had friends in Milhampton, 
although they did not attend Miss Fillibrown’s 
Private School. 

Most of all, perhaps, she missed Miss Thomas, 
the kind, wrinkled-faced, quiet-voiced librarian at 
the Milhampton Public Library, who let her wan¬ 
der at will, alone, among the book-stalls, and take 
out and put back any volume she pleased without 
asking. 

She believed she hated the librarian at the pub¬ 
lic library to which Mr. Hinckly directed her. On 
her first day there the librarian had spoken harshly 
to Laurel, and made her blush with shame. Laurel 
had never used a card catalogue before. It had n’t 
been necessary with Miss Thomas. In her engrossed 
interest in the myriads of varying titles she had 
drawn out and piled on the table beside her at least 
a dozen of the little drawers that contained the lur¬ 
ing cards. 

Suddenly somebody at her elbow exclaimed, “ You 
must n’t do that I ” 

Laurel gave a little startled jump. She had been 
a thousand miles away. 

“ It’s not necessary to remove but one drawer 
at a time.” There was displeasure in the voice. 


*204 


STELLA DALLAS 


Laurel flushed. 

The librarian began returning the drawers to their 
places with emphatic little jerks and shoves. Then, 
glancing at Laurel sharply, she remarked, “ Why, 
you Ve picked them from A to Z! What book is it 
you’re hunting for, anyway?” 

Laurel was forced to answer. “ I was n’t hunting 
for any special book.” 

“ What were you doing, then? ” 

“ I was just looking at the titles for fun,” Laurel 
murmured. 

The librarian gave her a withering look. “ The 
card catalogue is not fun. It’s for use,” she repri¬ 
manded. “ It’s not a toy. It’s a tool. Don’t ever 
play with it again.” 

Once out on the street Laurel said to herself, 
fighting with tears she could not control, “ I ’ll never 
go near it again! I ’ll never go into the building 
again! 

It was six months before her hunger for books 
overcame her fear of being recognized, and humili¬ 
ated a second time. 


3 

Laurel spent many hours in the trolley-cars in 
Boston. Her mother decided it was too late in the 
year to attempt to place her in any private school 
(of course public schools were no more to be con¬ 
sidered in Boston than in Milhampton), but Mr. 
Hinckly said Boston was full of splendid institu¬ 
tions that specialized in about every subject that ex¬ 
isted, and he could arrange for Laurel to take up 
courses of instruction in almost any of them. 


STELLA DALLAS 


20 § 

Therefore Laurel traveled from one side of Bos¬ 
ton to another, pursuing music in one building, 
French and German in another. Art in a third. Cur¬ 
rent Events in a fourth. Filet lace-making in the top 
loft of a fifth. She chafed beneath the incoherent 
routine. She longed for Miss Fillibrown’s, although 
she had n’t been very happy there. She thought it 
was the familiar classrooms and familiar faces she 
was homesick for, but really it was the coordination 
and consistency of an organized unit. The pupils in 
Laurel’s classes in Boston were as varied in age, 
race, sex, and station as are a chance group gathered 
together in the elevator of a public building. 

Night after night Laurel cried softly into her pil¬ 
low after her mother had fallen safely to sleep. Day 
after day she struggled with tears that seemed al¬ 
ways to be just beneath the thin surface of her 
smiles. 

She tried to reason with herself. She had been 
away from Milhampton before. Why, almost every 
summer since she could remember, she had been 
lonely in some unfamiliar place. But it had been 
bearable, she supposed, because it had been only 
for limited periods. And, besides, there had always 
been bellboys to speak to, elevator-men, and cham¬ 
bermaids. There had always been a game of bil¬ 
liards to watch, or an auction-table of women to 
listen to. 

Once, on the sidewalk outside the apartment, 
waiting for her mother to return from a shopping- 
tour, Laurel fell into shy conversation with a dark 
little girl, a few years younger than herself who lived 
in the apartment below. The possibility of a friend- 


2o6 


STELLA DALLAS 


ship with this gentle child filled Laurel with timid 
happiness for a whole afternoon. 

But when she told her mother about the conver¬ 
sation, Stella had exclaimed, “ Heavens, we can’t 
know those people. Laurel. They ’re foreigners! 
So is the family above us. I’ve discovered this 
place is riddled with them. Mr. Hinckly could n’t 
have known what he was talking about! We’ve sim¬ 
ply got to get out sooner or later.” 

Until Stella moved to Boston, Laurel had pre¬ 
ferred a tramp in the country, or a call on Jake, or 
Tony, or peg-legged Eddy, to the movies; or a 
stolen pilgrimage to the little house that used to be 
red, where the mysterious old man whom she must 
never tell was her grandfather lived, to a vaudeville 
or play. But in her new solitude, where there was 
no place to go and nowhere to call. Laurel looked 
with interest upon the diverting interior of any 
amusement place. 

She went to the movies with her mother three 
times a week regularly. They climbed to gallery 
seats at Keith’s every time the bill was changed. On 
Saturday nights Stella and Laurel usually dressed 
up in their best clothes, and dined at a fashionable 
hotel, ordering the lowest-priced entree on the bill, 
dawdling over their bread and butter, as they ob¬ 
served the gay parties about them, and watched the 
waiters bear in marvelous planked steaks and Peach 
Melbas. 

It was a bleak and forlorn sort of an existence for 
both mother and child, and terribly shorn of human 
contacts. But it need n’t have been quite so bleak 
and forlorn and shorn, Stella said, if Laurel had n’t 


STELLA DALLAS 


207 

taken such a dislike to Alfred Munn. Ed tried to 
be awfully kind. He called at the apartment before 
they had been in it a week. He tried to be awfully 
kind to Laurel especially. But the child wouldn’t 
let him. 


4 

** I can’t bear that man, mother,” she had said 
as soon as the door had closed upon him after his 
first call. “ Don’t let him come again.” There was 
a red spot in the center of each of her cheeks. 

“ Mercy, mercy, Lollie,” laughed Stella. (Lately 
Lollie would flare up like a little firebrand every 
once in a while over the littlest things I Her age, 
probably, Stella concluded.) “Why, what’s the 
matter with Ed?” she asked lightly, humoringly. 

“ He’s horrid!” 

“Horrid? How’s he horrid? ” 

“ He tickled me in the ribs and said I was pretty, 
and kissed me.” 

“Well, what of that? You’re only a little girl. 
Why should n’t he tell you you are pretty, and kiss 
you? ” 

“ His lips were wet, and his breath smelled. Oh, 
mother I ” shuddered Laurel. “ Don’t let him kiss 
me again. Don’t let him come here again.” 

“ Now don’t be silly. Laurel. I can’t tell Ed 
Munn not to come here again. It would be awfully 
rude and bad-mannered.” 

“But he^s rude, he^s bad-mannered.” 

“ Why, Laurel, how can you talk so about a gen¬ 
tleman who’s trying to do so much for us?” 

“ He is n’t a gentleman.” 


STELLA DALLAS 


108 

“ He’s more of a gentleman, I guess, than that 
dirty old cobbler you like so, who spits and swears, 
and that Dago who sells fruit, and came over steer- 
age.” 

“ Jake is n’t dirty — only on the outside, and 
Tony is not a Dago. He’s a Greek and he comes 
from a place in Greece where the most beautiful 
things in the world came from! Besides, Jake and 
Tony don’t kiss me, and Jake and Tony don’t say 
horrid things to me about you!* 

“And what things did Ed say about me?** 

“ When you were out of the room he put his arm 
around me, and told me he thought you were pretty, 
too.” 

“ Well?” 

“ He should n’t have said that, should he? Not to 
me? The way he did? ” 

“ Why not? I don’t call that horrid.” 

“ Don’t you? Really? ” 

“ Certainly not. Why should n’t he say it, if he 
thought it?” 

Laurel stared at her mother, confused, perplexed. 
She did n’t know how to answer, how to explain. 
She had never liked Ed Munn, but her dislike of him 
had never swept over her like this. It was fright¬ 
ening. Her sudden hatred of the man was like a big 
dense cloud that had rolled upon her unawares and 
enveloped her completely. She had turned toward 
her mother for help, for comprehension. She had 
groped for a steadying hand. But no hand had been 
held out. 

Suddenly Laurel turned and buried her face in the 
pillow on the couch and burst into violent weeping. 


STELLA DALLAS 


209 

Of late many of her emotions were like enveloping 
clouds — love and worship, as well as hate and 
scorn. Her passion for Mrs. Morrison was big, 
dense, un-understandable. As she lay with her face 
buried in the dark of the pillow, she could see great 
masses of red and purple light-dust, shapeless and 
conglomerate, rolling and shifting senselessly in the 
dark behind her closed lids. Life was like that. Oh, 
if only somebody would show her a straight easy 
little path leading through the confusion. 

“ Oh, come, come, Lollie,” exclaimed Stella. 
“ Don’t do that way. Of course if you feel so badly 
as all that about poor Ed, why — he need n’t come, 
I suppose. But for the life of me, I don’t see what 
he’s done to you.” 

It was the first time for years Stella had seen 
Laurel cry like a little girl. It was the last time she 
ever saw her. After that one outburst. Laurel never 
again betrayed to her mother her fear of the shift¬ 
ing clouds of the twilight stratum of the dawning of 
her soul. 

Stella was not mistaken in attributing Laurel’s 
sudden aversion to Ed to her age, but she soon dis¬ 
covered it was no whim. In fact. Laurel seemed so 
terribly set against “poor Ed” that she almost was 
inclined to believe that Stephen must have “ poi¬ 
soned ” her mind somehow. Why, when Ed invited 
Laurel and her mother to go to the theater with him, 
and choose their own show, the child refused abso¬ 
lutely to stir an inch. She would n’t touch a piece of 
the generous box of candy he sent them. “ Oh, how 
can you bear him?” she remarked quietly (for all 
the world like Stephen) when she found his name 


aio 


S I'ELLA DALLAS 


written on the card in the envelope tucked under¬ 
neath the showy bow of ribbon. 

Stella had to tell Ed the truth at last. She hated 
to give up all the good times he stood ready to 
shower upon them. She did n’t mind giving up Ed 
himself. She always got sick of him after a little 
while, anyhow, and she must confess he had run 
downhill considerably even since last September. He 
had changed his business again. He was working in 
some sort of machine-shop now, and his finger-nails 
were terribly broken and greasy. 


CHAPTER XVII 
1 

Laurel sat on the end of the pier with her feet 
swinging over the edge. A girl about her own 
age sat on each side of her. Their arms were thrown 
lightly around her shoulders, and hers lightly around 
theirs. All three of the girls were in white, except 
for their Boutet de Monvel colored sweaters — pale 
pink, pale yellow, and faintest lavender. The three 
girls made as pretty a display against the gray-blue 
of the lake as a fragment of rainbow. Beneath their 
swinging feet floated a flotilla of canoes, their bright 
red and green sides flashing in the sun. On the pier 
behind the girls was a collection of boxes, leather- 
encased thermos-bottles and jars, and several tea- 
baskets. 

The three girls were waiting for “ the crowd ’’ to 
assemble. “The crowd” was going on a picnic to 
Stag Island to-day. Laurel was one of “ the crowd.” 

Laurel was seventeen years old now, and this was 
the first time in all her life she had ever been one of 
a crowd. The thrilling experience had lasted for ten 
days. It would be three weeks the day after to-mor¬ 
row since Laurel and her mother had arrived at this 
unexpected Paradise. 

Laurel was keenly conscious of the careless arms 
about her shoulders, but she did n’t show it. Laurel 
could conceal joy and pride, she discovered, quite as 
successfully as disappointment and chagrin. She was 


212 


STELLA DALLAS 


keenly conscious, too, of the girl she had always been 
before on occasions of this sort, as she had strolled 
by just such intimate little groups as she now miracu¬ 
lously found herself one of, she and her mother tak¬ 
ing in what details of exciting preparations as they 
could, in a glance or two, or covert backward look. 
Laurel felt sorrier for that girl on this happy morn¬ 
ing, she thought, than she ever had before. 

Now, down the long pier that stretched out into 
the lake from the lawn in front of the hotel drifted 
other fragments of rainbow, other groups of two- 
and-three girls with arms linked; and among them 
occasionally a boy or two — tanned, lean, loose-knit, 
tough-muscled, dressed in light trousers and soft 
shirts — typical American college boys. There was 
a whole rollicking bunch of them behind the last trio 
of girls. By the time “ the crowd ” had all collected, 
the pier was as noisy as an ivy-covered wall full of 
sparrows on the first sunny day of spring. 

Laurel and the two girls beside her jumped up 
and joined the general chatter. Mrs. Adams and 
Mrs. Grosvenor, the two chaperons for the day’s 
festivities, leisurely approaching the bevy could 
catch bits and snatches of characteristic conversa¬ 
tion. 

“ Gorgeous day! Good-looking sweater, my 
dear! One exactly like it in henna. Last one in 
the dining-room — perfectly stunning! Abso/w/^ly! 
Crazy about that color.” 

Laurel did n’t contribute much to the staccatoed 
exclamations, but her eyes shone, and her cheeks 
were bright. 

“ Did you ever see any one quite as lovely as Lau- 


STELLA DALLAS 


213 

rel Dallas this morning?” remarked Mrs. Adams 
to Mrs. Grosvenor. 

“ She’s perfectly exquisite.” 

“ How is your mother, this morning, Laurel, my 
dear? ” Mrs. Adams inquired a moment later. 

“ Oh, better, thank you, Mrs. Adams,” Laurel 
replied, turning her flushed, pleased face toward the 
older woman. “ The sweet-peas you sent up to her 
were lovely. She told me to thank you ever and ever 
so much.” 

“ I left another book at the desk, to be sent up to 
her later,” remarked Mrs. Grosvenor. 

“ Oh, mother will be so pleased! ” 

“I hope she likes Wells, and hasn’t read his 
latest.” 

“ I’m sure she has n’t. You ’re awfully kind, Mrs. 
Grosvenor.” 

‘‘Not a bit. I ’ve been ill in a hotel-room myself. 
Laurel, dear. I know what it is like.” 

“Oh, Miss Dallas!” suddenly somebody ex¬ 
claimed, close beside Laurel’s other shoulder. 

Laurel turned and looked up into the eyes of Mrs. 
Grosvenor’s son Richard — her older son. She had 
two. Richard was a senior in college. He was one 
of the oldest boys who played with the “ crowd.” 
All the girls were “ simply crazy ” about Richard 
Grosvenor. 

“ But he can’t see anybody but you^ Laurel Dal¬ 
las,” one of the girls who had been sitting on the 
edge of the pier with Laurel had just told her. 

“You’re going with me, in my canoe, aren’t 
you?” he now said to Laurel, smiling. 


214 


STELLA DALLAS 


Any of the other girls would have known how to 
respond in the bluff, hearty, good-comradeship style 
of the day. ‘‘ Thanks, Dick,” or, “ Crazy to,” or, 
“ Sure I am,” but Laurel had n’t acquired all the 
ways yet. “ Am I ? ” she replied, in the same 
pleased surprised manner with which she met all at¬ 
tentions shown her. 

“Yes, you are,” he assured her quietly. He 
turned away. 

“ There! What did I Laurel Dallas? ” 

“ I ’ll bet he picks a single canoe.” 

“ He was here all last summer and never as much 
as looked at any of us younger girls.” 

All the boys were now busy among the canoes, 
loading them, rearranging the cushions and seat- 
backs, shoving the dainty little crafts up against the 
pier, ready for the girls to step into. 

“ All ready. Miss Dallas.” 

Laurel turned. Yes, Deborah was right I He had 
selected a single canoe! He stood up in it now as 
Laurel approached him. He reached up both hands 
toward her, the canoe drifting away a little from 
the wharf as he did so. Laurel placed her hands in 
his, and he swung her across the widening gap be¬ 
tween them into the center of the luxurious nest of 
cushions he had arranged for her in the bottom of 
the canoe. She alighted in the frail little boat like 
a bird on a tender twig. There was something of the 
same birdlike adroitness in every motion that Laurel 
made. 

Laurel had lost none of the peculiar woodsy qual¬ 
ity of her charm in the last four years. Her freckles 


STELLA DALLAS 


215 

had disappeared, however. (Stella always main¬ 
tained it was white vinegar and salt.) Her long 
curls had disappeared, too. Laurel did her hair up 
now. Rolled it into a simple knot behind. But the 
gray eyes with their changing moods from dark to 
light — like a lake beneath varying skies — were 
still the same. So was her grave listening manner — 
like trees on a windless night. She was still slight 
and sleek in body, too — as un-undulating as a low 
bas-relief when you draw your hand across its sur¬ 
face, but as possessed of lovely curves, too, and as 
suggestive of softness and warmth. 

“Won’t you sit down?” Richard Grosvenor 
asked her, still holding her hands, though he knew 
she did not require steadying now, Richard had ar¬ 
ranged the pillows so that Laurel would be facing 
him all the way up to Stag Island. 

“ Couldn’t I paddle, too?” 

“ Do you want to? ” 

“ I’d like to.” 

“ Oh, all right.” 

2 

They were off ten minutes before the others. 
Mrs. Adams and Mrs. Grosvenor watched the 
pretty skiff, with Laurel in the bow and Richard in 
the stern, disappear like a lazy bird around a clump 
of trees. 

“ Richard seems quite taken by her,” remarked 
Mrs. Adams. 

Mrs. Grosvenor smiled indulgently. “ I can’t 
deny it.” 

“ Well, he certainly shows excellent taste. I think 
she is a lovely girl.” 


2i6 


STELLA DALLAS 


“ Yes, Richard has always been very discerning. 
I Ve often told him he’s really almost too particu¬ 
lar — too fastidious about girls. This is his first se¬ 
rious affair since he has been in college as far as I 
know.” 

“ It really is, then, serious? ” 

“ Oh, I could n’t say that. It is obvious, that’s aU. 
Laurel is only seventeen, you know — a mere child, 
though Richard, absurd boy, says she’s more like 
twenty in many ways than most girls he knows of 
twenty-two. It’s serious enough, you see, for him 
to want to talk about her to me. He confided to me 
yesterday he intends inviting her to the game in No¬ 
vember and to Class Day next June. She was motor¬ 
ing with us yesterday afternoon and we discovered 
some mutual friends. It seems she visits at Mrs. 
Cornelius Morrison’s, you know, of New York and 
Long Island. I am on two charitable boards with 
Mrs. Morrison. She is a charming woman. Bob, my 
other son, is at St. Lee’s, with Mrs. Morrison’s old¬ 
est boy, Cornelius. They ’re delightful people.” 

3 

It was about an hour’s paddle to Stag Island, as 
the bird flies, but Richard guided the canoe along the 
irregular coastline, gliding through the dappled 
shadows of the beech and birch, of dogwood, and 
wild hydrangea, and occasional denser stretches of 
close-growing spruce and hemlock. 

For the first ten or fifteen minutes Laurel did n’t 
say a word. Not a single word! She sat in her perch 
in the bow, and steadily, rhythmically dipped her 
paddle into the water, drew it back, raised it, 


STELLA DALLAS 


217 

reached forward, dipped it into the water again. 
Richard, a few feet behind her, followed her slow 
revolutions. The effect upon him was almost hyp¬ 
notic. It was awkward to be silent with most girls. 
He seldom was. Most girls avoided any such lapses 
as this. But Laurel Dallas would drift into silence 
as naturally, as unconsciously, as a canary, whose 
song is interrupted by some simple cause, and out of 
it in the same unexpected spontaneous fashion. 

The crowd had been left far behind — they 
could n’t even be heard — when Laurel and Richard 
slipped into a little sequestered cove, almost a cave, 
with a leaf-covered roof — a lovely spot. Instinc¬ 
tively both the paddles dug deep into the water and 
held the canoe stationary. Laurel lifted her paddle 
very gently, and laid it noiselessly across her knees. 
The only sound in the sylvan sanctuary was the drip 
— drip — drip of a few drops of water from her 
paddle’s broad end. 

Finally Richard said softly from his seat behind 
Laurel, “ Are you there? ” 

She broke into a low pleased laugh at that. 
“ Every bit of me is here! ” 

“ I wondered. You’ve been so noisy.” 

She leaned her head back and gazed up at the blue 
sky through the low-hanging branches. She drew in 
her breath deep. “ Oh, is n’t it too beautiful to be 
true! ” 

Richard, gazing only at her, thought it was! He 
didn’t say so, simply smiled and remarked, “You 
like the woods, don’t you? ” 

“ I love them! ” Laurel exclaimed. 

But it was n’t the woods she was loving so much 


STELLA DALLAS 


ai8 

just then. It was life. Life had never seemed so 
kind and generous, so good and beautiful to her as 
now! She sighed, then suddenly lifted her paddle, 
plunged it into the dark water at her side, and 
slipped out of the little cave-spot, into the sunshine 
again. Slipped out into silence again, too, 

“ You are n’t talking to me very much this morn¬ 
ing,” later Richard informed her. 

She made no reply. 

“ You ’re a funny girl. I never knew a girl in my 
life who had silence for a line.” 

“ Do you want me to talk? ” 

” No.” 

** When I’m in a canoe, near the shore, like this, 
I love sneaking around the corners on the birds and 
animals when they ’re not expecting you, and see 
what they ’re up to.” 

Some five, ten, fifteen minutes later, the canoe, 
pushing its nose around a bit of wooded peninsula, 
came abruptly upon a deer standing upon the shore. 
Laurel made no exclamation at sight of him, nor did 
she stop paddling or vary her stroke. She simply 
gazed in silent admiration for a second or two, then 
abruptly turned and looked back over her shoulder, 
to find out if her companion saw the beautiful crea¬ 
ture too. Richard thought he had never seen 
anything so lovely, so blinding as Laurel’s eyes as 
they met his! He smiled, nodded. She turned back 
satisfied. Not a word was spoken, but sharing the 
deer that way was — well— “Look here,” said 
Richard a moment later, “ have n’t you paddled 
enough? Come, won’t you please sit down here on 
the cushions and talk? ” 


STELLA DALLAS 


219 

She did finally. 

“ You ’ re different from any girl I ever knew.” 

Most girls liked being told they were different. It 
seemed to distress Laurel. 

“ I try hard not to be.” 

“ Don’t try.” 

Laurel had never been talked to by any boy like 
this before. She was at a loss to know how to ban¬ 
ter back. 

“ Are you already booked for the game in No¬ 
vember? ” asked Richard. 

“ The game? ” 

“ The big game, I mean. It’s in Cambridge this 
year.” 

“ Oh, no, no, I’m not,” Laurel’s heart fluttered. 
He meant the big Harvard-Yale game! Oh, how 
happy her mother would be I 

“ I want you to go with me.” 

“ Why, but I — do you think your mother — I 
mean — we — ” 

“ I know,” he interrupted, “ that we’ve known 
each other only a week, and all the rest of that silly 
conventional stuff. But I’m not a perfect stranger 
to you. You can tell your mother that my kid 
brother knows Con Morrison. He visited him once. 
Con has been at our house. Anyhow, when your 
mother is able to come downstairs, she ’ll know us 
herself. It will be all right then, I simply had to 
get my word in now for fear you might get booked 
with somebody else. I want you to go to the game 
with me^ if you go with anybody. Will you? ” 

“ Yes, I will,” said Laurel, looking off toward the 
shore, her eyes again suddenly dark and luminous. 


220 


STELLA DALLAS 


Richard looked toward the shore, too. Had she 
seen another deer? 

When they landed at Stag Island half an hour 
later, “ Don’t forget you ’re going to paddle back 
with me, too,” Richard whispered. 

4 

All day long one happy moment followed an¬ 
other as uninterruptedly as one telegraph-pole an¬ 
other flashing by the window of a railroad train. It 
had been like that ever since the morning Mrs. 
Adams had fallen into conversation with Laurel on 
the hotel veranda. That was ten days ago, yet Lau¬ 
rel was only just beginning to become sufficiently 
used to the steady succession of kindnesses as to take 
them for granted, as to forget for an hour or so, 
occasionally, the phenomenon of their unfailing 
repetition. 

Mrs. Adams had noticed Laurel the first morning 
she had appeared alone in the hotel dining-room. 
So, too, had others noticed her. The head-waiter 
had shown Laurel to a table by a far window. After 
she had sat there alone during breakfast, lunch, and 
dinner, Mrs. Adams made inquiries of the clerk. It 
seemed the new girl’s mother was ill upstairs. Ton¬ 
sillitis. The hotel doctor was taking care of her. 
Mrs. Adams spoke to Laurel that morning, asked 
her if there was anything she could do to help, and 
introduced her to two girls standing, near by, with 
tennis racquets. 

“ Do you play? ” asked one of the girls. 

Will you play?” asked the other. 

It was as easy as that. That very morning Lau- 


STELLA DALLAS 


221 


rel played tennis with three girls of the crowd ” 
that very afternoon played golf w^ith three others; 
that very evening met the boys and danced until the 
music stopped, running upstairs between numbers to 
see if her mother was comfortable, and to let her 
share what she knew would make her happier than 
anything else in the world. 

“ Well, I guess we Ve struck the right place at 
last, Lollie,” Stella exclaimed from her pillow, with 
a glint of triumph in her eyes. “ Don’t think of me. 
Don’t come up again, dearie. I’m all right. I’m 
bound to be. I just knew we’d happen on to gold 
some day.” 

It had all been pure luck. Stella had chosen this 
particular hotel from a circular, on the strength of 
the fact of its high rates. The start had been any¬ 
thing but propitious. Either she or Laurel had been 
ill from the first moment of their arrival. Laurel 
was confined to the bedroom the first twenty-four 
hours, and Stella had been obliged to wander about 
the unexplored regions downstairs companionless. 
Then the moment the fever left Laurel, did n’t it go 
and settle itself upon Stella — settle and stay, too I 
At the end of two weeks Stella was only just begin¬ 
ning to sit up in a chair by her bed. 

5 

After lunch under the tall pines on Stag Island, 
the boys went off to explore the coast; and the girls 
(after the tea-baskets were repacked and the pine- 
needle bank made as neat and clean as the inside of 
a pine chest) grouped themselves in colorful bunches 
on the soft brown background, and producing gay 


222 


STELLA DALLAS 


work-bags, began plying various tools — knitting- 
needles, crochet-hooks, and tatting-bobbins; convers¬ 
ing the while lazily, meanderingly, breaking into 
shrill peals of laughter, now and then, or fragment 
of popular song. 

Laurel lay back, flat on the ground, idle, her 
hands folded under her head, and gazed up at the 
murmuring tops of the trees. She wished her mother 
might be hiding up there among the needles, gazing 
down at her through the gaps, seeing, hearing. 

Deborah, seated beside Laurel, was tickling her 
nose with a spear of field grass. Laurel attempting 
to catch it in her mouth by occasional puppy-like 
snaps. Frances on the other side was amusing her¬ 
self by weaving pine needles through the meshes of 
Laurel’s sweater. “ I ’ll pay you back, somehow,” 
purred Laurel contentedly. 

Now they were telling her about the theatricals 
they gave every year in August, discussing what sort 
of a role would be best suited to her; now describing 
the delights of the night she would spend on the top 
of Spear Mountain before the season was over; now 
commanding her to make herself useful and sit up 
and help wind some yarn. 

Oh, was it all true? Did they like her a little? 
Were they her friends? It seemed to Laurel that 
afternoon, as the shadows grew longer on the west¬ 
ern margin of the lake and the hour for the home¬ 
ward paddle with Richard Grosvenor through those 
shadows, approached, that her cup of happiness was 
full to the brim. 


STELLA DALLAS 


223 


6 

At the end of the homeward paddle it seemed to 
her that that cup was overflowing. Richard had 
asked her to be his partner in the tennis tournament 
on Saturday; he had asked her to go to lunch at a 
neighboring hotel with his mother and himself to¬ 
morrow noon; he had asked her to come out alone 
with him, in the canoe, to-night after dinner, when 
the moon rose; he had asked if he might write to 
her after he returned to town. He was going back 
in four days. He had taken a job in his father’s of¬ 
fice for the rest of the summer. 

As they had drawn near to the pier in front of 
the hotel, he had said to Laurel, interrupting his 
paddling as he did so, leaning forward, It does n’t 
seem possible that I met you only a week ago ” (Oh, 
it was the beginning of the old, old story). “You 
seem to me like somebody I’ve known a long while ” 
(told in the old, old way). 

Laurel closed her eyes a moment — he did n’t see 
her — then opened them wide. She had a feeling 
she might wake any moment and find it all a dream. 

As she jumped out of the canoe on to the pier 
beside him, a look passed between them that was like 
the look when they had shared the deer silently to¬ 
gether. For the third or fourth time that day Lau¬ 
rel’s heart fluttered and seemed almost to turn over. 

Several of “ the crowd ” were on the pier when 
Laurel and Richard arrived. Deborah called out 
brightly to them, “ Come along, walk up with us.” 

She linked a free arm familiarly through Laurel’s 
as she approached, and Richard fell into step on 


STELLA DALLAS 


224 

Laurel’s other side. Frances and two boys were 
also with the group. They all moved up the pier to¬ 
gether. The girls began singing a popular song. 
Then suddenly in the midst of the chorus, Deborah 
stopped singing, stopped walking, too. So did the 
others. 

“Oh, girls! Look!” she exclaimed. “There is 
that woman! ” 

Laurel glanced up. Coming down across the lawn 
in front of the hotel approaching the pier, she saw 
her mother. 

7 

Stella was several hundred yards away, but Lau¬ 
rel was familiar with the black-and-white striped 
foulard which she now wore. Stella had remodeled 
her foulard this spring. She had given it a lot of 
fresh “ pep,” with generous dashes of Kelly green. 
Deborah seemed familiar with the foulard, too. 

“What woman?” Frances inquired. 

“ Why, my dear, look, look for yourself, and see. 
Don’t you remember that dreadful dress? Of 
course you do! You were with us. You saw her 
about two weeks ago. She was around the hotel all 
one day.” 

“ Good gracious! Of course I do! We wondered 
how such a person ever got in here, and then decided 
she must have come, just for the day, from that un¬ 
speakable place on the other side of the lake.” 

“ Notice her. Laurel,” laughed Deborah, giving 
Laurel a little squeeze. “ I believe she is coming 
down toward the pier. Take her in. She’s a per¬ 
fect scream. Paint about an inch thick, and plucked 


STELLA DALLAS 


0.2^ 

eyebrows, and dyed hair, and not a day under forty. 
Oh, she’s a mess. You remember her, Richard, 
don’t you? ” 

“Yes, I remember her. Awful dame! Horrible 
creature! ” 

Behind Laurel lay only water. On either side of 
her lay only water. She could not turn and run. She 
watched her mother choose the gravel path that led 
to the pier. (“She is I She’s coming this way, 
girls!” delightedly ejaculated Deborah.) Then 
suddenly Laurel exclaimed, “ I’ve lost something.” 

“ Lost something? ” 

“ My watch 1 ” She held up an empty wrist. “ It 
must have dropped off In the canoe.” 

She turned back immediately. Richard turned 
back, too. 

“Shan’t we all come and look?” Deborah of¬ 
fered. 

“ No, please,” Laurel called back. 

“You all go along,” Richard ordered. “We’ll 
find it.” 

“ I think it must be among the cushions some¬ 
where,” said Laurel. 

All during the torturing ten or fifteen minutes 
when she and Richard shook the cushions and pil¬ 
lows, each separate one, and then ran their hands 
into every possible corner and crevice of the canoe 
where a watch might lodge, and even searched be¬ 
tween the loosely fitted boards of the pier. Laurel 
kept a constant watch of the shore. She saw her 
mother walk slowly down the path toward the lake, 
arrive at the water’s edge, hesitate, and then sit 
down on one of the rustic seats built on either side 


226 


STELLA DALLAS 


of the pier, where it joined the bank. She saw the 
group which she had just left approach the rustic 
seats, draw nearer to her mother, pass her mother 1 
Thank kind heaven above, they did n’t stop! Her 
mother did n’t introduce herself to them after all! 
Laurel breathed freer. But only for a short time. 
It soon became evident that her mother was going to 
wait for her at the rustic seats until her errand at the 
end of the pier, whatever it was, was finished. 

Laurel could n’t keep up the silly search among 
a half-dozen sofa-pillows and one canoe Indefinitely. 
She must go back along the pier and pass between 
the rustic seats with Richard Grosvenor beside her, 
in a minute or two. Would she tell him now — Im¬ 
mediately, that the “ awful dame” was her mother? 

“Well, I guess my watch Isn’t here, after all,” 
she said with a catch in her voice, with almost a sob. 
It was over — all over. And so unbeautifully, so 
hideously. 

“ If the watch is n’t here. It’s probably up at Stag 
Island. If we both paddle hard, we can be there be¬ 
fore dark. Jump in, we ’ll find It.” 

Laurel gave Richard a look that was like that of 
a dog to the god who releases his foot from the jaws 
of a steel trap. “Oh, you are good!” And she 
jumped Into her place in the front of the canoe, he 
jumped In behind, and they were off, out of sight, 
out of sound, In three minutes. 

They did n’t find the watch. They hunted until It 
was dark on Stag Island and paddled back by 
the light of a slowly rising July moon. They hardly 
talked at all. Richard was aware of a high current 
of feeling that seemed to be coursing through this 


STELLA DALLAS 


Q.'iy 

mysterious girl ever since the first moment that she 
had noticed that her wrist was bare. It awed and 
silenced him. 

It was n’t until they were returning from Stag 
Island that he remarked, “ You must think a lot of 
that watch.” 

She replied, “ I ’ll never forget you ’re coming to 
help me find it.” 

“ But we have n’t been successful.” 

“ That does n’t matter. I ’ll never forget it. 
Never, never, never, never.” 

A similar high current of feeling coursed through 
Richard, too, at the sound of her low voice, ear¬ 
nestly repeating the single word to him. 

8 

It was after nine o’clock when Laurel and Rich¬ 
ard reached the pier for the second time that eve¬ 
ning. It was deserted. So, too. Laurel observed, 
with a fresh wave of gratitude for the boy who had 
saved her, and her mother also, were the rustic seats. 

“ I’m going in by a side door,” Laurel said to 
Richard, as they walked toward the lighted hotel. 

You go in the other way. You see the crowd. I 
want to go right up to my mother as quickly as I 
can.” 

“ But you ’ll be down again? ” 

“ Not to-night.” 

“ You have n’t had any dinner.” 

“ I ’ll have some sent up.” 

“ But — ” 

“ Please.” 

“ Shan’t I . ee you again to-night?” 


228 


STELLA DALLAS 


“ Not to-night.” 

“When shall I see you again?” 

(In ten — in five minutes, when “the crowd” 
told him, he would n’t want to see her ever again.) 

“ To-morrow,” she managed to smile. 

“ Yes. Don’t forget. We ’re going to have lunch 
together to-morrow.” 

1 won t. 

“ I’ve only four days left,” he went on eagerly, 
“ give me the morning before lunch, too, will you? 
Please. We’ve so much to talk about, and I’ve 
only four days left. We ’ll go somewhere alone.” 

They had reached the rear door now. Laurel had 
one hand on the knob. 

“Will you? Please answer. Will you?” 

Laurel turned and looked up at him, and nodded. 

“ Right after breakfast? ” 

She nodded again. 

“ Promise? ” 

For the third time she nodded, then suddenly 
reached out her free hand and touched Richard 
Grosvenor on his arm, drew her hand back quickly, 
and whispered, “ Good-night.” 

Her eyes were as black as the lake beneath the 
moon. 

“ Laurel! ” Richard moved toward her, but she 
had turned, she had gone. The big door with its 
heavy spring closed softly upon him. 


CHAPTER XVIII 
1 

Laurel found her mother propped up In bed. 

“Well, of all things! Where have you been?’’ 
she exclaimed as Laurel came into the room. 

“ Did n’t any one tell you? ” 

“ Not till just about half an hour ago ; then that 
Mrs. Grosvenor sent a bellboy up with a note, say¬ 
ing not to worry, you had lost something and had 
gone back to the island with her boy to hunt for it. 
What did you lose. Laurel? ” 

“ My watch.” 

“Your watch! Why, don’t you remember yott 
said this morning you would n’t wear it because it 
might get wet? There it is on the bureau! ” 

“ Why, that is so.” 

“Gracious! What’s the matter with you?” 

“ I must be losing my memory, I guess,” smiled 
Laurel wanly. 

She crossed the room and slipped the watch onto 
her wrist. 

“ Had a good time to-day? ” Stella inquired. 

“ Wonderful.” 

“You must tell me about it. Every word! I’m 
crazy to hear.” 

“ I will. How have you been, mother? ” 

“ Where have I been, you better ask.” 

“Well, where have you been?” 

“ Downstairs! ” she announced with a triumphant 
nod of her head. 


STELLA DALLAS 


230 

“ Downstairs! ” 

“ It’s a wonder you did n’t see me. I saw yow. 
The doctor was here this morning, and said it would 
do me good to get up and around as soon as pos¬ 
sible now. At first I thought I better not till to¬ 
morrow morning. Then I said to myself it would 
be fun to surprise you. So I dressed about four 
o’clock, and sat around on the veranda for a while. 
I felt just fine, and when I saw all your party coming 
down, the lake in the canoes, I walked down to the 
pier to meet you. I saw you when you went off 
with that young man, heaven knew where. I sup¬ 
posed you would be right back. I waited for over 
an hour in that little summer-house at the end of the 
pier. I thought it would be so nice to meet him 
like that, offhand, and I was looking rather well.” 

Laurel, occupied before the mirror — pulling off 
the lavender sweater over her head, removing the 
soft felt tam-o’-shanter that matched it, giving her 
hair gentle little presses and pokes — inquired casu¬ 
ally, “ Did you stay downstairs to dinner? ” 

“No, I didn’t. Though I felt all right. But I 
thought this way — it would be nicer to meet all 
your friends when you were around to introduce me. 
I ’ll go down to breakfast with you to-morrow morn¬ 
ing. I feel just great.” 

“Then you didn’t meet anybody?” 

“ Not yet.” 

“ Mother,” said Laurel, turning toward her from 
the mirror, “ I’m going downstairs just a moment 
if you ’re all right. I won’t be long.” 

“ Mercy I Don’t think about me. Stay as long as 
you want, and have a good time. Gracious, you de- 


STELLA DALLAS 


231 

serve it. I *m as contented as a clam, so long as you 
are happy, Lollie. But you can’t go like that, in 
that wrinkled waist and your hair all mussy.” 

“ Oh, it does n’t matter.” 

Laurel did not take the elevator downstairs. She 
walked. The elevator would leave her the whole 
length of the foyer away from the hotel office. The 
stairs came down just behind it. Laurel felt fairly 
sure that none of “ the crowd ” would be near the 
office at this time in the evening. She was right. 
Nobody was near the office. The clerk was alone. 

“We’re leaving to-morrow,” she told him. 

“ Leaving! I thought your mother — ” 

“ My mother is much better, and something has 
happened that makes it necessary for us to go home 
immediately.” 

“ Why, but — ” 

“ Oh, I know we Ve engaged the room for the 
season. You’ll have to charge us for it, if that is 
the way you do. We’ve got to go, anyway.” 
There was something very convincing about Laurel. 
“ We ’re going on the early train,” she said. 

“ Oh, but the early train is n’t necessary. The 
train that connects with the Boston Pullman at the 
Junction, sixty miles below here, does n’t leave until 
evening.” 

That did n’t matter to Laurel. If she and her 
mother preferred leaving on the early train, they 
could do so, could n’t they, and pick up the Pullman, 
when it came through the Junction at night? 

“ Why, of course — but it would be very foolish 
— nobody ever does it.” 

“ We ’re going to,” Laurel announced. 


STELLA DALLAS 


1232 


2 

“ Mother,” she remarked ten minutes later, “you 
must lie there in bed and watch me pack the trunks.” 

“ Pack the trunks I ” 

“We ’re leaving this place to-morrow morning, 
at half-past seven.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“ We’re leaving. We’re going.” 

“ What do you mean? ” 

“ What I say. I’ve just been downstairs and told 
the clerk.” 

“ Have you lost your mind. Laurel? ” 

A faint smile drifted across Laurel’s features, 
softened for a moment her firmly set jaw and chin. 

“ Oh, I’m sorry, mother! I’m ever so sorry.” 

“What’s happened? What’s the meaning of 
this?” 

“ Oh, I just don’t like it here any more,” shrugged 
Laurel. “ I just can’t stand it here any more.” 

Stella’s eyes narrowed. She nodded her head, 
slowly up and down. “ Humph! Sounds mighty 
like a quarrel with your young man to me” 

“ Oh, don’t say * my young man,’ mother.” 

“There you go! Just like your father again! 
Criticizing my language every other minute! Well, 
then, Richard Grosvenor. Sounds mighty like a 
quarrel with Richard Grosvenor, to me” 

“ Mother,” said Laurel, “ I never want to see 
Richard Grosvenor again as long as I live! ” 

“ I knew it! I knew it! Come, Laurel, don’t be 
a little goose. Mercy, I never saw such a pepper¬ 
box! You can’t fly out of a hotel like this, on a 


STELLA DALLAS 


233 

moment’s notice, just because of a little lover’s 
quarrel. Heavens alive! You come to bed and 
sleep on it. You ’ll feel entirely different in the 
morning. So will he. Gracious I I know how those 
things work. Quarrels make the heart grow fonder. 
There’s a saying something like that. You come to 
bed, Laurel.” 

“ Not till the packing Is finished,” said Laurel. 

She turned her back upon Stella, crossed the room 
to the bureau, pulled out a lower drawer, and re¬ 
moved a pile of underclothes. 

“ You don’t mean to say you ’re going to pack up 
and clear out of the only place we ever even had a 
Hook-In’ at?” 

‘‘ Yes, mother.” 

“ Where do you think we ’re going to at this late 
date?” 

“ Why, back to the apartment.” 

“ Back to the apartment in July! ” 

“ Yes, mother.” 

“ Do you mean to say. Laurel, you ’re thinking of 
putting me In a train In the condition I’m in? ” 

“ I stopped and asked the doctor. He said it 
Would n’t hurt you to travel, he thought.” 

“ And what about the expense of this room? ” 

“ The clerk said we would n’t have to pay for It. 
But even if we did, It would n’t make any difference. 
Oh, mother, don’t talk. Don’t argue. We ’re 
going, anyway.” 

Laurel was emptying all the bureau drawers now. 
Stella, from the bed, stared at her speechless, as 
helpless, as powerless as If she were the child. She 
recognized that look in Laurel’s eyes. 


234 


STELLA DALLAS 


“ I Ve brought you up all wrong,” she sighed. 

Laurel made no reply to that. Swiftly, effectively, 
she sorted and piled. Swiftly, effectively began fill¬ 
ing the trunks. 

“ Laurel, you Ve doing a crazy thing,” Stella 
broke out afresh, “ and for the life of me, I don’t 
know how to stop you.” 

“ Don’t let’s go all over it again.” 

“ You ’re throwing away the best chance you’ve 
ever had. Listen to me. Most of these people here 
come from Philadelphia. I had it all worked out 
in my mind that if we got the right sort of a start 
with them this summer, here, we might take an 
apartment down around Philadelphia somewheres 
next fall. Then you’d have some of the right kind 
of friends to play around with, and when the time 
comes for you to come out, why — ” 

“ Where’s the tissue-paper, mother? I think I ’ll 
do the dresses next.” 

Five minutes later Stella became tearful. Laurel 
brought her a handkerchief. 

“ I should think,” she wailed, after she had vigor¬ 
ously blown her nose and mopped her eyes, “ you’d 
want me to have a little of the good times you’ve 
been enjoying these three weeks while I’ve been 
cooped up here in bed. / like nice people, and things 
going on myself. You know I do. But just the 
minute I am able to get out of bed and take in a 
little of the gayety and excitement, you let a silly 
quarrel with a young fellow you never saw three 
weeks ago cheat me of it all.” 

“Where are the trees for your satin slippers? 
Do you know ? ” called Laurel from the closet.- 


STELLA DALLAS 


235 


3 

Laurel and her mother spent all the next day^ 
from ten in the morning, until eight at night in the 
waiting-room at the Junction. The waiting-room at 
the Junction was hot and dusty. It swarmed with 
flies, attracted by discarded lunch-boxes and paper 
bags. It smelled of cinders and hot steel. There 
were settees built around the edge of the waiting- 
room. They were painted mop-colored gray, di¬ 
vided by iron arms into spaces, so that no one could 
lie down upon them. Laurel arranged the suitcases 
as best she could, for her mother’s feet, and rolled 
up a traveling-coat into a pillow for her head. All 
day Laurel hovered solicitously about her mother, 
offering her frequent drinks of water, which she 
brought in a paper cup; trying to tempt her with 
crackers and cheese and sweet chocolate, which she 
procured from a general store, half a mile up the 
road; asking her from time to time how she felt; 
showing concern, anxiety, but not the slightest sign 
of yielding or regret. Stella, resigned now, and 
stoically submissive, sat silent and unresponsive all 
day long. At measured intervals she sighed deeply, 
eloquently. 

At eight o’clock in the evening a Pullman car was 
backed up to the Junction and side-tracked there 
for an hour or so to await several incoming trains 
from various points of the compass. Laurel and 
her mother crawled in between the sheets of a lower 
berth in the Pullman car a little after nine. 

Laurel was on the inside of the berth. Stella’s 
obdurate back was turned toward her. As Laurel 


STELLA DALLAS 


236 

stretched her long slim body down beside her 
mother, she slipped her hand under her mother’s 
arm — around her waist, as she always did when she 
went to sleep — though she had n’t last night. 

“ Mother,” she whispered, “ are n’t you going to 
forgive me pretty soon? ” 

Stella pressed the precious hand, drew it closely 
around her. 

“ Of course I am, you crazy kid,” she whispered 
back. “ I don’t care what you do, just so I’ve ^ot 
you to do it. Gosh, I can’t stay mad with you any 
longer!” 

Laurel’s arm tightened. That was all right then. 
Oh, if only Richard — if only he — her arm 
loosened, grew limp. Laurel fell to sleep almost 
immediately. So did Stella. They both had been 
asleep for an hour or more when the hotel train 
whistled into the Junction at about half-past ten. 

4 

Laurel was drifting off into unconsciousness 
for the second time when she became aware of her 
name being spoken, just outside the heavy curtain 
of the berth. She had been dimly aware of voices 
conversing in low tones for five or ten minutes be¬ 
fore the sound of her own name prodded her wide 
awake. The section opposite had not been made up 
when she and her mother went to bed. Probably, 
Laurel concluded, some of the people who had come 
down on the evening train were sitting there and 
chatting. 

“ Yes, that very pretty dark girl, who was so popu¬ 
lar with the younger set — lovely eyes. Laurel 
Dallas. Such an odd name.” 


STELLA DALLAS 


237 

** But how IS it possible ? She seemed so very re¬ 
fined, so distinctly nice in every way.” 

“ Well, I asked the clerk. He told me — ” 

“ You mean the woman in the striped dress? ” 

“ Certainly, certainly. She is that lovely child’s 
mother.” 

“ What a handicap to the poor girl.” 

“ I should say so. All those people she’s been 
playing around with had no idea what her mother 
was like, I suppose. She’s been ill ever since she 
came. I wish I could have stayed a few days longer 
and seen just what would have happened when that 
woman appeared on the scene.” 

“ What’s the woman’s story? ” 

“ I don’t know. I never heard of her before. Dal¬ 
las is her name, from Boston.” 

“ Poor girl. It’s like having a ball and chain 
around her ankle to be obliged to drag a woman 
like that after her wherever she goes.” 

“ Yes, but those things happen. Once I knew of a 
young man — charming — such aristocratic man¬ 
ners, and he came from the commonest family — 
vulgar people. Of course, being a man, he could es¬ 
cape his family, but a girl — a young girl like that ” 
— the train began to move — “ perfectly helpless — 
branded ” — it moved faster — “a shame. Such 
a pity — Richard Grosvenor — ” It moved still 
faster. The voices were drowned in the rumble of 
flying steel. 

5 

Oh, had her mother heard? Was her mother 
awake? No, Laurel thought not. Her breathing 


238 STELLA DALLAS 

was heavy and slightly audible. The hand that had 
grasped hers so tightly a little while ago was limp 
and lifeless now. Her whole body was limp and 
lifeless. It moved slightly with the motion of the 
train, as unresisting as the curtains. 

6 

Oh, had Lollie heard? Was she awake? No, 
Stella thought not. Her soft breathing was as 
regular as the swinging of a pendulum. The arm 
that encircled her waist was as consciousless as a 
sleeping baby’s. 


7 

So that was the story! Oh, what a fool she had 
been I A handicap to Laurel! And not because of 
unfair stories, of whispered scandals (these women 
did n’t know who she was, did n’t even know she 
was n’t living with her husband), but just because of 
herself. Was she so awful — so God-awful, then? 

Stella had been listening to the voices for ten 
minutes before Laurel had become aware of them. 
She had heard herself described in detail, in cruel 
detail. She did n’t suppose anybody knew that she 
“ touched ” her hair a little now and then. Why, 
even Lollie did n’t know it. Up to two years ago 
it had n’t been necessary, but she did so hate the soft- 
boiled-egg look when yellow hair begins to turn 
white. Other women kept themselves young and at¬ 
tractive without being criticized. She had tried not 
to become a perfect sight for Laurel’s sake, to keep 
in the running, as far as appearances went, so the 
child need never be ashamed of her, as she had 


STELLA DALLAS 


239 

been of her mother and the mouse-colored wrap¬ 
pers. But she had failed. Why, it was the same 
story right over again. Laurel was ashamed of her 
mother, too. It was as plain as the nose on your 
face. That was the reason Laurel was leaving the 
hotel. She would die rather than confess it, of 
course. That was the way Laurel was — as con¬ 
siderate, as gentle, as delicate with her common, 
ordinary, vulgar mother (were n’t those some of 
the words the voices had used?) as with the charm¬ 
ing Mrs. Grosvenor or the flawless Mrs. Morrison. 

Well, what was to be done about it? Now that 
Stella knew the truth, knew that just her own per¬ 
sonality, just her own five senses and the old hulk 
of a shell they lived in, was like an iron ball tied to 
Laurel’s ankle (pleasant to learn that about your¬ 
self in the middle of the night, when you so wanted 
to be wings for your child), well — now that she 
had learned it, what was the next number on the 
programme? Laurel being a girl, the voices had said, 
could n’t escape, could n’t break the chain to the 
ball. Well, then (Stella’s fingers very gently closed 
over Laurel’s. She still slept — and she really did 
sleep now)—well, then— It would be pretty 
awful without her, would n’t it? Dear little Lollie! 
— Let’s see, let’s see. No. No other way. 

8 

A NARROW ribbon of sunlight was shining into the 
berth through a crack by the tightly pulled window- 
shade by Laurel’s feet when she stirred and woke. 
Stella was waiting for her, had been waiting all 
night. 




^40 


STELLA DALLAS 


“ Well, honey I ’’ she said lightly. “ Had a good 
night?” 

Their eyes met. 

“Splendid. Have you?” 

“ Great. Feel lots better.” 

“ No, she did n’t hear,” thought Laurel. 

“ No, she did n’t hear,” thought Stella.* 


CHAPTER XIX 

1 

Helen Morrison sat in the big library-sort of 
room where Laurel had first watched her serve tea. 
She sat by one of the long windows that looked out 
upon the willow-shaded avenue that wound up to 
the front door; by the same window, it chanced, 
out of which she had run to meet Laurel the first 
time she had come to visit her four years ago. She 
was dressed very much as she had been then (it was 
morning and July), in white skirt and waist and 
low shoes. She sat in front of a desk, writing, in 
a dilatory fashion. Every little while she glanced 
back over her shoulder at the clock upon the mantel, 
then out the window down the willow-shaded drive, 
then back again to her pen. 

Looking at Helen from the clock as she bent 
over her writing, she seemed not to have changed 
at all in the last four years, or in the last fourteen 
years; the same young-girl slenderness (not the 
slightest thickening of neck and shoulders, hip or 
ankle), the same young-girl lightness, as she sat 
poised on the edge of her chair, which was tilted 
forward on its two delicate front legs. But, when 
she raised her head, and looked back at the clock, 
then one saw without a shadow of doubt that she 
was no longer a girl. It wasn’t only her hair (for 
in the last four years the few white threads Laurel 
had discovered had become a definite streak of silver 


STELLA DALLAS 


242 

cloud that drifted about the left side of her brow 
and reached backward to the still dark coil in her 
neck) —it was something more convincing, some¬ 
thing less obvious but deeper-rooted. There was 
on Helen’s face a look of settled calm (or was 
it settled hopelessness?) that hadn’t been there 
four years ago when she had rushed out of the long 
window down the lawn to meet Stephen and Laurel. 
There had been laughter and anticipation in her 
eyes then. Now there were only quiet smiles and 
submission. 

To-day, again, Helen was awaiting the arrival of 
an automobile. She had sent the car down to the 
station to meet the-train due at ten-forty. It was 
now after eleven. It was only five minutes to the 
station. The train must be late. She finished her 
letter, then rose, crossed the room, and stood look¬ 
ing out of another long window that opened out 
upon the terrace. Helen was awaiting the arrival 
of Laurel’s mother, of Stephen’s v/ife. She had tele¬ 
phoned last night from New York. 

“I’m Mrs..Stephen Dallas,” the strange voice 
had announced. “ I want to talk with you. Will you 
be home to-morrow morning if I come out? ” 

Helen had replied, with no surprise in her voice, 
that she would be glad to come in town and meet her 
there if she preferred. 

“ No. I’d rather come out.” 

They had arranged the trains. Helen had told her 
she would have her met. 

When finally the bell rang, and the maid an¬ 
nounced Mrs. Dallas, Helen crossed the hall to the 
reception-room with a sensation as near dread as 


STELLA DALLAS 


243 

she had ever felt in her life when about to meet a 
guest. 

Stella was standing up. She had on a dark-blue 
tricolette suit, and wore a summer fur — white fox, 
fastened behind. The dead animal’s head hung half¬ 
way down her back. Stella’s coat was tightly but¬ 
toned, and fitted her generous bust and hips without 
a ripple. Her hat was large and broad-brimmed, 
and did n’t take a veil well. Therefore she had ad¬ 
justed her veil over her bare head before putting 
her hat on. The veil was drawn tightly over her 
generous cheeks and chin, and it also fitted without 
a ripple. 

2 

Helen looked at nothing but Stella’s eyes, as 
she came toward her smiling, with her hand out¬ 
stretched. 

“ Good-morning, Mrs. Dallas,” she said. “ I hope 
the chauffeur found you.” 

“No, he didn’t. There was quite a crowd. I 
walked.” 

“ Oh, I’m sorry. It is such a warm morning. Let 
me send for some water.” She made a movement 
toward the bell. 

“ I don’t want any water.” Why, her hair was 
snow-white on one side! She could n’t be a day 
under forty! 

“ Well, do take off your coat and unfasten your 
fur.” 

“ No, thanks.” 

“ And sit down. Let us come into the other room. 
It ’s pleasanter there.” 


244 


STELLA DALLAS 


Helen led the way across the hall, shoved a cool, 
linen-covered armchair in front of one of the ter¬ 
race windows. “ I always like it here better on a 
warm morning, looking out on the shadows rather 
than on sunshine. And there’s usually a breeze.” 

Opposite the armchair Helen placed one of the 
Sheratons for herself. She made a little waving 
motion toward the armchair. “ Sit down, please,” 
she said; ” take that chair.” 

Stella complied — at least partially. She took the 
extreme edge of the chair. It was one of those low 
deep affairs. She’d have a frightful time getting 
out of it if she sat back. Helen sat down, too. There 
was a pause — a pause that threatened to become 
awkward. 

“ Is it very warm in town this morning? ” Helen 
inquired. 

Stella ignored the question. Might as well take 
the bull by the horns. 

“ I suppose you think it’s funny my coming here.” 

“ No, I don’t,” earnestly Helen assured her, lean¬ 
ing forward, clasping her hands upon her knees. 
” You and I have a great deal in common. I don’t 
think it’s funny at all.” 

“Well, funny or not, I had to come. I thought 
of writing at first, but, gracious, if a thing is im¬ 
portant enough to you, you ’ll do it the right way — 
at least, the way that seems right to you — whatever 
any one thinks. There are some things I had to 
know that nobody but you could tell me, so I decided 
to come right down here myself and ask them.” 

“ That was the right way.” 

“ I’ve heard a lot about you.” 


STELLA DALLAS 


^45 


“ And so have I — heard a lot about you.” 

“ From Laurel, I mean.” 

“ Yes, I mean from Laurel, too.” 

“ I suppose you know it, but Laurel thinks a lot 
of you.” 

Helen smiled. “ And I suppose you know it, but 
Laurel thinks a lot of you.” 

” Well, I’m her mother. She has to. But she’s 
got what they call a sort of ‘ crush ’ — ‘ mash * we 
called it when I was a girl— on you. She hates to 
have me call it that. She won’t talk about you very 
much, now. Thinks I might be jealous or something, 
I guess. Perhaps I was a little at first, though I 
hardly knew it. Laurel did, though. Trust her. 
She’s the sort of child knows what you feel before 
you do yourself almost.” 

“ I know. Sensitive, is n’t she — oh, so sensitive I 
I think a great deal of Laurel, Mrs. Dallas. You 
have a beautiful child, I think.” 

“ She is a nice kiddie,” said Stella. 

For an instant the two women’s eyes met. Was 
that bright look tears, they both wondered. 

3 

Stella was the first to look away. She cleared 
her throat, coughed, made another attempt. 

“How’s Stephen now?” 

“ I think he’s well.” 

“ I suppose you see him now and then? ” 

“ No. The last few times Laurel has visited me. 
Miss Simpson has brought her, and taken her away. 
Stephen and I have n’t met for two years.” 

“ Oh, that so? ” Stella looked back at Mrs. Mor- 


STELLA DALLAS 


246 

rison. Gracious! What had happened? The shining 
look had all gone from her eyes and the light from 
her expression. She looked gray, ashen, and old, 
terribly old. 

“ Look here, Mrs. Morrison,” Stella went on, 
“ I’m not going to beat about the bush any longer. 

I Ve been thinking a good deal lately of the advan¬ 
tages to me if I got things fixed up between Stephen 
and myself, the way he wanted them fixed up a 
while ago. But before I do any more thinking I 
want to find out how things are now between Ste¬ 
phen and you.” 

Helen’s clasped hands tightened upon her knee, 
but she showed no feeling when she spoke. 

“ Mrs. Dallas,” she said, “ I don’t want to be 
unkind, but self-denial, our duty to others, the toll 
that must be paid for mistakes, separation from 
each other — nothing will ever destroy that which 
exists, even though without form or expression, be¬ 
tween Stephen and me.” 

Stella looked puzzled. 

‘‘ But what I want to know is, if Stephen was free, 
if I stepped aside, the way he suggested, would you 
two get married?” Might as well come right out 
with the nub. After all, it did n’t make her jump. 

“We would,” Helen replied. 

“ Are you sure? ” 

“ I’m sure.” 

“ But you have n’t seen Stephen for two years.” 

“ I know, I know. Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Dallas. 
But the truth is best. I think you want it.” 

“ It’s what I came for.” 

“ It’s what I shall give you, even though it costs 
me Stephen himself.” 


STELLA DALLAS 


247 

“Well, the next thing I want to get clear is, if 
you two did marry, what about Laurel? ” 

“ If we did — ” Helen drew in her breath quickly, 
“ why, if we did — if we did — ” 

“Yes, if you did, what about Laurel?” 

Helen let her breath out ever so carefully, ever so 
carefully drew in another. 

“ Oh, Laurel. Laurel is yours, Mrs. Dallas. A 
child is always her mother’s, I think.” 

“ You mean. Laurel would keep right on making 
her headquarters with me, the same as she does 
now? ” 

“ Why, of course. I am a mother, Mrs. Dallas. 
Once I was the mother of a little girl. My little girl 
would be just Laurel’s age now. As long as I live 
I shall never be guilty of robbing any woman of 
her only little daughter.” 

Stella glanced down at her shoe, out upon the 
terrace, back to her shoe again, cleared her throat, 
then boldly raised her eyes to Helen’s. 

“ But if the woman did n’t want her daughter. I 
mean if she could n’t have her very well, if it was 
inconvenient — ” 

“ Don’t you want Laurel, Mrs. Dallas? ” Helen 
exclaimed. 

“ Oh, of course, I want her, but you see she’s a 
great expense now, and I have n’t many maids — no 
one to leave her with. I’m quite tied down by her, 
and — ” 

“ Oh,” broke out Helen, and again her eyes were 
shining, “ I’d love to have Laurel! I’d love to 
have Laurel, even if I had her without Stephen.” 

“ No, that would n’t do,” said Stella, hard and 


STELLA DALLAS 


1248 

practical, her eyes shining, too, but not with tears 
— with triumph. “ If you were married to Stephen 
your name would be Dallas then, and Laurel’s 
name would be Dallas, too. Don’t you see? And 
everybody would think, who did n’t stop to ask, 
that Laurel was yours. Gracious, she’s enough like 
you — dark and slim as a smokestack, and you’ve 
been her model for years, as far as ways and man¬ 
ners go, and when you begin to do things for her — 
like giving her, well — a coming-out party, or some¬ 
thing ^— you know she’s seventeen now — why, 
then the invitation cards, ‘ Mr. and Mrs. Dallas, 
and Miss Dallas,’ would read right, don’t you see? 
I’ve thought it out. And later, if one of the nice 
young men in your circle fell in love with Laurel, 
and married her, why, then again, it would read 
right in the papers and society columns, where those 
things are printed. And the same way,” Stella pur¬ 
sued, warming to her subject, “ at hotels and places 
when you have to register — that is, if you should 
travel with Laurel in Europe or California. Laurel 
really ought to travel. It is so expensive, I could n’t 
manage it myself, what with all the private lessons in 
riding and skating, and dancing and music, and 
heaven knows what-not. You ’ll find she’s quite up in 
those things. Oh, really,” earnestly, eagerly she 
hastened on, unaware of the increasing wonder and 
surprise in Helen Morrison’s wide-open eyes, 
“ really, if you do want a daughter of your own to 
take the place of that baby you spoke of that died, 
I ’ll say this, I don’t think you ’ll ever be ashamed 
of Laurel. She takes after her father, and if you ’re 
crazy about her father, why, it popped into my 


STELLA DALLAS 


249 


mind that — honestly I can’t see a trace of me in 
Laurel. Nobody can. She’s so refined, and sort 
of elegant in her ways. You know that yourself. 
Oh, you need n’t have a minute’s doubt about what 
sort of a success Laurel will make if you should 
bring her out in New York society sometime. She 
makes a wonderful impression upon strangers. 
Why, If that girl did n’t have me shackled round 
one foot everywhere she goes, she’d just soar. And 
another thing I want to make clear to you, don’t be 
afraid I ’ll be appearing at embarrassing moments. 
I won’t — ever. I’ve got some common sense, thank 
heaven. I know what sort of an impression / make, 
too.” 

There was no mistake about the tears In Helen’s 
eyes now. She rose, went quickly over to Stella, 
sat down on the arm of her chair, and put her arm 
about her shoulders. 

“ I see! I understand! ” she exclaimed, softly. 

4 

Stella stiffened. No woman had ever under¬ 
stood before. She had never understood herself. 
The undercurrent of her life had been flowing 
beneath the surface waters, unnoticed, unobserved 
for years, wearing a deeper and deeper channel, 
gathering strength and power In Its hidden course. 
But not until Mrs. Morrison put her arm around 
Stella had any one looked down through the flotsam 
and discovered the crystal waters underneath. 

“ Everything shall be as you wish,” said Helen. 
“Everything. Travel and parties and friends — 
everything, that to you means happiness for your 


STELLA DALLAS 


250 

child. I ’ll treat her as my very own, but she will 
always be yours. You will not lose her. You shall 
see her often. We ’ll arrange that. Oh, I wonder 
if I could have done so big a thing for my little 
girl.” 

Stella dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief 
through her veil, struggled to her feet, dabbed her 
eyes again, bit her lip hard — Good gracious, she 
must n’t break down and bawl like a baby. 

“ I’m an awful old fool sometimes lately,” she 
murmured. 

“ Don’t go. Sit down again. Please. We’ve so 
much to talk about. I Ve got so much to learn.” 

“No, I can’t. Laurel thinks I’m in Milhampton, 
and I must hustle along back to Boston to-night or 
she ’ll get suspicious. You’ve got my idea. There’s 
no need of staying any longer. You tell Stephen 
I’m ready to get the divorce any day now, and the 
quicker the better. Only tell him, for goodness’ 
sake, don’t put that man Morley Smith on it. I 
don’t believe I could meet that excrescence and be 
decent to him. Every time I think — but never 
mind. That’s all over. Oh, by the way, one thing 
more — when Laurel is down here this September 
visiting you, don’t tell her what’s up. I can’t stand 
long-drawn-out good-byes. I may mention I’m 
getting a divorce, but I shan’t tell her what for. 
Don’t let on a word till we ’re ready to shoot. You 
and Stephen get married, have Laurel down for a 
Sunday. I ’ll send her clothes on afterwards. Some¬ 
thing like that. I’ve thought it out. No soft-music, 
sob-stuff for me, thank you. Is this the living- 
room : 



STELLA DALLAS 


251 

“ Yes, this is the living-room.” 

Stella gazed at the high, dignified walls silently 
a moment. “ I can just see her in it, entertaining 
her young friends; walking around on that terrace 
with Richard Grosvenor — he’s somebody your 
sons know, a young man that is just crazy about 
Lollle — walking along in her slow grand way 
under those big aristocratic-looking trees down 
there; yes, it will suit her fine. That’s why I 
wanted to come out — to see, what it was like. 
I walked by your city house last night. It was 
closed, but I could get an Idea. I suppose you 
think that’s funny, but I Ve picked out Laurel’s 
clothes so much — ” she stopped. “ I could n’t see 
some of the other rooms, could I ? I ’ll never be 
here again, and, well — you know, it’s sort of nice 
to be able to think of a person In a house or a 
room you’ve seen yourself, when they write. I 
thought Laurel and I might write.” 

“ Of course you ’ll write. Oh, It will only be as 
If she were away at school or college, having all 
the things you want her to have. Come out Into 
the dining-room. Come out Into the garden. 
Laurel loves the garden. And then come upstairs. 
The violet guest-room Is Laurel’s now. Come and 
see her pretty valanced bed.” 


CHAPTER XX 

1 

Stephen sat in his office, fifteen floors above the 
sidewalk and street thermometer that registered 
ninety-five. He sat in the gentle breeze of two 
silently revolving electric fans, in front of his desk, 
in a big chair with his elbows on its arm, and his 
hands folded. He was dictating, gazing out of the 
high window toward the northeast with a look in his 
eyes as if he saw a hundred miles away. 

To-day, as Stephen sat and gazed, searched, and 
selected, he was aware of the heat, aware of the 
rumble of the city outside, aware of the loud 
insistent pound — pound — pound of a riveter at 
work near by, aware of his own fatigue, too. He 
sighed deeply now and then. When Stephen was 
tired, and gazed out of the high windows in the di¬ 
rection of the green lawns and white beaches of 
Long Island, there was a Helen between every care¬ 
ful phrase that he spoke. 

At a quarter of one that day, or thereabouts, 
Stephen raised his wrist and glanced at it. 

“ Time for one more, I think. Miss Mills. Pretty 
hot, is n’t it? Can you stand it? All right. Ready.” 

He was attacking a difficult second paragraph — 
twice already had murmured, “ No, start again ” — 
when there was a repressed burr at his side. He 
frowned, turned away from his engrossed contem¬ 
plation of the illimitable space outside his window, 


STELLA DALLAS 


253 

and reached for the telephone, supporting it upon 
his chest as he leaned back again and spoke into it. 

“Who is it?” he asked. 

“ Long distance. Green Hills, New York, Mrs. 
Cornelius Morrison,” the operator in the outer 
office announced. 

It was as if a current of electricity passed through 
Stephen. Though he didn’t move a hand or foot, 
Miss Mills observed his sudden alertness, the sud¬ 
den tightening of the muscles around his jaw and 
cheek-bones. Discreetly she turned away. 

“ Connect me,” she heard him say. Then he 
turned to her. His eyes were like spots of phos¬ 
phorescence. “ We ’ll finish that later. I ’ll call 
you.” He nodded toward the outer office. She 
rose. “ Please close the door.” 

Alone, Stephen leaned forward, placed the tele¬ 
phone on the solid foundation of his desk, drew 
his chair close to it, jerked himself to the edge of 
the chair, crouched over the telephone eagerly, 
cupping his hand over the transmitter. 

Helen’s voice sounded clear and sweet, as if she 
were in the very room beside him. He had n’t 
heard her voice for two years. 

“ Hello.” 

“ Hello, Helen.” 

“Is it you, Stephen?” 

“It’s I. Yes. What is it? Are you all right?” 

He caught her little laugh. 

“ Oh, yes, yes. I’m all right. I called you up 
to find out if you had an engagement for to-night.’^ 

“ What do you mean? ” 

“Well, have you an engagement?” 


STELLA DALLAS 


^54 

“ No. Of course I have n’t. But — ” 

“ Then could you come down this evening? ” 

“Helen, what has happened?” 

“Nothing awful. Could you?” 

“Yes. I could. But — ” 

“About eight o’clock?” 

“ Yes, eight o’clock. All right. But, Helen, 
please — ” 

“ Eight o’clock to-night, then. Good-bye.” 

She had sent for him! Helen had sent for him 
to come to her! At one o’clock, at half-past one, 
at two, Stephen was still sitting in his big chair 
before his desk, looking far out over the roofs. 
Miss Mills was still sitting outside the door, 
waiting to finish the dictation. 

2 

“ I’m sorry to have called you at your office, 
Stephen,” were Helen’s first words when she saw 
him that night, standing ten feet away from him, 
just inside the threshold of the big room. “ I 
suppose you were having a consultation or doing 
something important ” — she tried to make her 
voice sound light and careless — “ but I wanted to 
get you, right straight off, so that you would n’t fall 
down an elevator-shaft, or get killed in an explosion, 
or something ” — she laughed tremulously — “ the 
way they do in novels, sometimes, before I had a 
chance to tell you that after all our years of waiting, 
that — that — after — Oh, Stephen — ” 


STELLA DALLAS 


^SS 


3 

Stella arrived at the apartment on Common¬ 
wealth Avenue at eleven o’clock that night. She 
telephoned to Laurel from the Back Bay station 
that she would be out in half an hour, and when 
she puffed up the last flight of stairs — it grew 
hotter and hotter as she approached the roof — 
Laurel, in her thin sleeveless nightgown, with her 
hair pulled tightly back and braided, was in the 
hall to meet her. 

** I Ve made some lemonade, mother. It’s on the 
ice. And there’s some cold watermelon. Come 
in and get those horrid hot things off. I Ve pulled 
the bed out where it will get the breeze, if there 
is any, in the early morning. How is Mrs. Mc- 
Davitt and the children?” 

Ten minutes later, Stella, nightgowned and hair 
pulled back and braided, too, sat on the back porch 
under the clothes-reel and drank lemonade, and ate 
cold watermelon, and gazed at Lollie, seated on top 
of the coal-box with her bare arms locked about her 
knees, not talking much, looking up at the lop-sided 
moon that had been full three nights ago on Stag 
Island. 

Funny place, thought Stella, for the lovely Miss 
Laurel Dallas, who would be staggering New York 
society one of these days, to be perched in mid¬ 
summer. Oh, if she could only tell the poor 
suffering little kiddie (for she was suffering — she 
had been pretty crazy about that Grosvenor boy, 
Stella guessed) —if she could only tell her it was 
only for a short time now; that everything would 


^56 STELLA DALLAS 

come out all right in the end. But of course she 
could n’t. Mum was the word. 

“ It’s simply horrid for you here, honey.” 

Laurel gave a start, as if she had been a thousand 
miles away. 

“ Oh, no, it is n’t,” she assured Stella lightly. 
“ Really, I like it. Oh, we ’ll have a good time. See 
if we don’t. There’s Revere, and Nantasket, and 
Norumbega.” 

“Was it awful lonesome without me?” 

“ No more awful for me than for you when I’m 
away, I guess.” 

“What did you do?” 

“ Oh, I sat out here.” 

“ Gracious! Seventeen, summer, a moon, and 
alone, out here.” 

“ About nine o’clock the bell rang. It was that 
Mr. Munn.” 

“Oh, Ed! Really?” 

“He said he saw the light and thought it was 
probably you who were here, alone, while I was off 
visiting somewhere. When he discovered it was I, 
he said please to excuse him, and went away.” 

“ That sounds real polite of Ed.” 

“No, it wasn’t. He didn’t have any right to 
ring the bell for you — a man like that. He knows 
we don’t want him. We ’ve shown him. Oh, I hate 
that man, mother.” 

“I know you do. You’ve told me so enough 
times. Funny. You ’re your father right over again, 
Lollie.” 

“ Did father ever see Ed Munn?” 

“ Mercy, yes 1 ” 


STELLA DALLAS 


257 

“ Did father ever hate Ed Munn? ” 

“Like fury,” laughed Stella; “and there was 
never any sense in it either — no more than with 
you — just a whim.” 

Laurel still gazing at the moon and the few far 
dim stars that seemed to He beyond was silent. 
Was Alfred Munn one of the pieces of the puzzle, 
too? 


4 

Helen and Stephen were quietly married one 
afternoon the following spring. The same day 
Laurel received a note from Mrs. Morrison inviting 
her to spend a week-end with her, a fortnight later. 
The invitation did not come as a surprise to Laurel. 
Mrs. Morrison had told her last September that 
she hoped to have Laurel stay with her for a few 
days in the spring. Laurel had told her mother of 
the possibility. Stella had been working on Laurel’s 
wardrobe, in preparation, for weeks before Mrs. 
Morrison’s note arrived. 

Helen was at the station to meet Laurel. She 
and Mrs. Morrison (she was still Mrs. Morrison 
to Laurel) were quite alone in the back of the 
limousine as it threaded its way out of the conges¬ 
tion of Forty-Second Street, and turned north on 
Fifth Avenue. Laurel sat forward on the edge of 
the seat beside Helen, cheeks flushed, chin raised, 
breathing in deep breaths of the intoxicating, Mrs. 
Morrison-charged air, not saying anything at all. 

“Glad to be here?” finally Helen interrupted 
from her deep corner. 

Laurel simply nodded, keeping her starry eyes 


STELLA DALLAS 


258 

steadfastly turned away. Her worshipful regard 
for Mrs. Morrison had not changed in quality in 
the last four years. The only difference was that 
she was able to adapt herself a little sooner now 
than formerly to the dazzling presence of her god¬ 
dess. Give Laurel an hour and she would find her 
tongue. Give her several hours and the same 
emotion which choked, confined — later unloosened, 
unlocked, threw the gates wide. 

“ Your father is going to be with us for dinner 
to-night,” briefly Helen announced before the car 
had left them at the door. 

“ Oh, I wondered when I’d see father.” 

Helen and Stephen had decided to tell Laurel 
together. They waited until after dinner. Con and 
Dane were away at school, and little Rick, who 
had been cautioned not to mention the great news, 
had finally been torn away from Laurel’s side (little 
Rick was devoted to Laurel) and had gone upstairs. 
Helen and Stephen were alone with Laurel in 
Helen’s lovely ivory-tinted room, seated, all three, 
before the fire, on the long Sheraton sofa, with 
Laurel in the middle. 

Helen slipped an arm through Laurel’s and, 
smiling across at Stephen, said, “ Shall I tell Laurel 
a story now? ” 

The story that Helen told was the story of her 
own life. She told it exquisitely. “And then — and 
then — and then — ” step by step, from the first 
time when she knew that she loved Stephen when 
only a little older than Laurel, down through all 
the years, when their paths diverged, met, diverged 
again. It was a simple, straightforward statement 


STELLA DALLAS 


259 

of facts, with no excuses nor explanations. It 
sounded to Stephen like some beautiful epic poem. 
He had to close his eyes frequently to shut out 
tears. When she reached the end, “And so here we 
are. Laurel — Stephen and I, together at last/* 

Laurel whispered softly, “Married?** 

“ Yes.** 

“ I wondered when you would be,** was Laurel*s 
unsurprised reply. 

“How long have you wondered that, Laurel?** 
eagerly Stephen inquired. 

“ Oh, ever since I saw you together in the big 
room at Green Hills, when I came down from 
upstairs that first time, I felt then that you were 
meant to be married, only — ** 

“Yes, only?** 

“ Only you must have taken a wrong turn way 
back somewhere — you know how it is — a wrong 
turn or a detour makes all the journey different 
sometimes.** 

Stephen slipped his arm through Laurel*s, too. 
“Are you glad? ** he asked her. 

“ Oh, ever so glad I ** promptly she assured him. 
“ It *s like a book, or a play, coming out the way 
you hoped it would; or a journey ending where it 
should, even though there was a wrong turn. What 
shall I call you, Mrs. Morrison?** she broke off. 
“ I ’ve wondered and wondered. Isn*t it funny? ** 
she laughed. “ You are n*t Mrs. Morrison any 
more I ** 

What a little girl she was, after all, thought 
Stephen, and how merciful. It had been easier than 
he feared to tell her that he had become to another 


STELLA DALLAS 


a6o 

woman what he had one day been to her mother. 
How simply, how serenely, she accepted that which 
had been so painfully won. 

“ Let’s call each other by our first names,” lightly 
Helen suggested. 

“ Oh, I wonder if I ever could! Your name is 
so — so special. Mrs. Morrison is like the word 
‘ America ’ to me. It means things. I could n’t 
possibly call America anything else.” 

“You could call it home, couldn’t you?” said 
Helen. 


5 

Later, placing her hand over Laurel’s, and 
Laurel turning hers palm upwards, and interlacing 
her fingers with Helen’s in impulsive response, 
Helen said, “ There’s more to my story. Laurel.” 

With infinite gentleness she explained to Laurel 
that she was a part of this home now — was a 
member of this family; they were hers and she was 
theirs. She must have been talking five minutes 
before Laurel caught the import of her words. 

“ You mean,” suddenly she interrupted, “ I’m to 
live here? ” 

“ Yes, here, and at the place at Green Hills. With 
us — with your father, with Con and Dane and 
Rick — they’re so happy about it — wherever we 
are — as one of us. Laurel.” 

“ I never thought of that.” Laurel gazed won- 
deringly around the lovely room. This her home? 
This beautiful place? A family like other girls? A 
mother and father who lived together? Mrs. Mor¬ 
rison? “ Yes, yes,” she gasped, “ but what about — 
what about — ” 


STELLA DALLAS 


261 


“What about your mother?” Helen asked for 
her. “ I know, I understand. You shall see your 
mother often, Laurel.” 

“You mean” — she still had a manner as if 
gasping for air — as if groping for light, for com¬ 
prehension. “ You mean mother would still live in 
Boston? ” 

“That would seem wisest, wouldn’t it?” 

“ Yes, yes, of course,” Laurel nodded. “ Yes, 
that would seem wisest.” For a long quarter-minute 
she was silent, staring straight in front of her, then 
unlocking her fingers from Helen’s, withdrawing her 
arm linked through her father’s, “ No,” she said 
quietly, “ it would n’t do.” 

“ You may visit your mother in Boston, Laurel.” 

Again for a moment Laurel was silent. “ No, it 
would n’t do,” she repeated. The little girl in her 
had disappeared. The spontaneity, the soft tender 
impulsiveness had faded, gone. “ I’d like to be a 
member of your family, father,” she said, turning 
toward Stephen, “ of yours, too, Mrs. Morrison,” 
turning toward Helen. “ Thank you ever and ever 
so much, but I’m sorry, I could n’t.” 

“ But, Lollie, my dear child — ” 

“ But, Laurel, listen — ” 

For twenty minutes, for half an hour, both Ste¬ 
phen and Helen labored with Laurel; but to no pur¬ 
pose, to no avail. “ I’m sorry. I could n’t,” was 
her unvaried reply. 

Finally Stephen exclaimed, “ But, Laurel, my dear 
child, this is n’t a matter we are consulting you on. 
It is a matter that has already been arranged. We 
are simply telling you about it.” 



262 STELLA DALLAS 

That makes no difference. I’m sorry. I 
could n’t,” she persisted. 

“Why, of course you can, my dear. You don’t 
understand. You are not of age to make your own 
decisions yet. Laurel.” 

“ Oh, yes, I am, father.” 

“ But you ’re not. Not on a matter of this sort. 
Your mother and I have decided this for you.” 

“ Does mother know of it? ” 

“ Certainly, and approves. She is sending your 
trunks to-morrow.” 

Two little bright spots appeared in the center 
of Laurel’s cheeks. 

** The trunks will have to be sent back then,” she 
announced. “ How silly to have tried to force me 
like that I ” 

“We didn’t think it would be forcing. We be¬ 
lieved it would be a plan that would make you very 
happy. It was your mother’s idea, to say nothing 
about it beforehand, to avoid, I believe, good-byes.” 

Laurel replied calmly, “ I came down here for 
four days and I am going home in four days, father.” 

“ This is home now,” he told her. 

“ Oh, no, it is n’t,” she flashed back, “ and it never 
will be home either, as long as my mother is alive.” 
Laurel stood up. “ Of course you can lock me up 
if you want to,” she went on, “ but I shan’t stay any 
other way. Please understand that.” 

The bright spots on her cheeks had not disap¬ 
peared. There were unfamiliar lines and shadows, 
too, about her chin and jaw. Helen and Stephen 
stared at her. They had never felt the steel in 
Laurel before. 


STELLA DALLAS 


263 


“ But, Laurel — ’’ 

“ Oh, don’t let’s argue about it, father. It 
won’t do the least bit of good.” 

“ Why, this is absurd, impossible. I cannot 
allow — ” 

“ Just a minute, Stephen,” Helen interrupted. 
There were bright spots in the center of Stephen’s 
cheeks, too. ” Laurel, dear,” she said, reaching for 
Laurel’s hand, drawing her down on the sofa again. 
“ Listen. Let me explain. It is your mother’s wish. 
It’s all your mother’s planning. This — all this ” 
— with a wave of her hand she included the whole 
house and all it stood for in way of happiness for 
Laurel — “ is her gift to you.” (The truth was best, 
Helen concluded.) “ She came and saw me about it 
last summer. We talked it all over in detail, to¬ 
gether.” 

“When last summer?” Laurel exclaimed. 

“ Last July.” 

(Oh, then, it flashed across Laurel, her mother 
had heard! She had n’t been asleep that night on the 
train! She had n’t been to Milhampton the next 
day to see Effie McDavitt. She had been to New 
York to give her Mrs. Morrison!) 

“ Well, I shan’t take her gift,” said Laurel. (Her 
mother! Her wonderful mother! And they had 
called her “ That woman! ” “ That awful creature! ” 
“ That dame!”) 


CHAPTER XXI 

1 

“ How foolish of you, mother,” four days later 
Laurel scolded Stella, as they stood side by side in 
front of the sink in the kitchen of the Boston apart¬ 
ment and washed and dried the three-days’ collec¬ 
tion of dishes Stella had allowed to accumulate. 
“ How foolish to think you could work up any such 
scheme as that on me. You’d think I didn’t have 
any such thing as a will of my own.” 

“ Oh, I know,” sighed Stella. “ I suppose we did 
it the wrong way. I ought to have told you, I guess.” 

“ Telling me would n’t have made any difference. 
I would n’t have listened.” 

“ But I don’t see why. He’s your own father, and 
you’ve always been crazy about him, and she — ” 
“ I know, I know,” Laurel interrupted. “ Oh, 
look here, mother,” impatiently she broke off. “ Lis¬ 
ten to me. I’m never going to leave you as long as 
you live. Do get that through your head. Do try; 
and don’t talk about it any more.” Then, suddenly 
gentle, “ Why, mother,” she caressed, “ don’t you 
remember you said to me once, way back, when I 
was a mite of a child, ‘ I ’ll never leave you, and 
you ’ll never leave me, will you, Lollie? ’ I’ve never 
forgotten that.” 

“ Oh,” groaned Stella, “ what a fool I was to have 
talked that way to a little kid! ” 

“ No,” Laurel retorted. “ Rather, what a fool 


STELLA DALLAS 


265 

you were to have worked and slaved for that little 
kid for seventeen years, and skimped and saved for 
her all that time, and given her everything under the 
sun you thought would make her happy — oh, that 
was an awfully foolish way to treat a child you 
hoped would trot off and leave you the first chance 
she got.’’ 

“ What nonsense,” Stella scorned. “ Why, I 
did n’t even want you before you were born. I did n’t 
like babies.” 

“ Yes, so you ’ve told me before,” laughed Laurel, 
“ and you don’t want me now, do you? Poor thing! 
But you’ve got to have mCy just as before I was 
born. You’ve got to have me. You see we happen 
to belong to each other, mother.” 

“ But you belong to your father, too.” 

Laurel puckered up her brow, thoughtfully, mop¬ 
ping the plate which she held half in the water, half 
out, round and round slowly with her dishcloth. 

“ Yes,” she acknowledged, “ I suppose I do be¬ 
long to father, too, but it’s different. I’m fond of 
father. I love to be with him. We always have won¬ 
derful times, but father and I have never been 
through anything long and hard and disagreeable. 
We’ve always had just fun together. Somehow, 
having fun together does n’t make two people feel 
as if they belonged the way suffering together does. 
Besides, father does n’t need me the way you do.” 

“ Pshaw I I don’t need you! I get along all right 
alone.” 

“ So did I last summer, those two days when you 
left me. I got along all right alone, too. Nobody 
to wash dishes with, nobody to talk with, nor to eat 


0.66 


STELLA DALLAS 


with, nor to sleep with, nor to do anything with. 
I know what it is like. No, mother, you can’t live 
like that. It is n’t decent.” 

“ Decent! What do you mean? ” 

“ Why, look at the way the apartment looks, for 
one thing. Not only the kitchen, but all the other 
rooms, too. I never saw them in such a mess.” 

“Well, but I didn’t know you were coming. If 
you’d written — ” 

“ Exactly. Without some human being to clean 
up for, and have a little pride for, this place would 
look the way grandpa’s used to before he died, in 
a little while. No, mother. You can never live alone. 
Come, let’s change the subject. What show shall 
we see to-night?” 


2 

Stella threw down her dish-towel and sat down 
at the kitchen table, her hands dropping limp into 
her lap. “ But I’ve gone and given your father his 
divorce now,” she lamented. “ I did n’t want a di¬ 
vorce 1 It will be all for nothing, if you won’t go and 
live with him for a while.” 

“ Mother, I’ve told you, and told you, I’m glad 
you’ve given father the divorce. It was exactly the 
right thing to do. Father and Mrs. Morrison cared 
about each other before you and I ever saw either 
of them. You’ve fixed something right that was 
wrong.” 

“ Yes,” sneered Stella, “ especially you. I’ve fixed 
you fine and right! Oh,” she sighed, her eyes rest¬ 
ing mournfully on Laurel’s back as she stood before 
the sink, “ it just almost kills me to see you doing 
work like that, Lollie.” 


STELLA DALLAS 


' 267 

Laurel was wiping out the large tin dishpan, now, 
with her dishcloth, which she had just wrung out 
with several vigorous little twists. Afterwards she 
hung up the dishpan on a hook underneath the sink 
and spread out the dishcloth to dry on top of it. 
Then proceeded to clean the soapstone sink. She 
used a small rubber-edged shovel for the purpose, 
scooping up small bits of refuse with it, and empty¬ 
ing it now and then into her free hand. 

“ 1 like making things bright and clean,’’ she called 
out above the loud scraping noise she was mak¬ 
ing with her shovel, “ but if you prefer,” she went 
on cheerfully, “ we ’ll have a servant. You ’ve often 
said, since the divorce, we could afford several ser¬ 
vants if we wanted them.” 

” Oh, but, Lollie, I don’t know how to run a lot 
of servants. Besides, what’s the use of servants 
when there’s nobody to serve? I can’t give you a 
coming-out party. I used to think I could, but I 
know now 1 can’t. No. It’s no use. It’s not in me. 
I’ve done all I can for you.” She lifted her up¬ 
turned hands, lying idle in her lap, and then let 
them drop, dead and lifeless. ^^She was going to 
bring you out in New York society, Lollie,” she 
droned on, “ she said she was. You’d be going to 
dinners, and dances, and balls. You’d be having 
lovely clothes. You’d be having lovely friends — 
young ladies in limousines calling mornings for you 
to go shopping with them; young men in limousines 
calling evenings for you to go — ” 

“ Mother! Please stop. You’ve told me all that 
before.” 

“ I have n’t told you one thing. I have n’t said 



a68 STELLA DALLAS 

one word about one special thing. Laurel, listen, if 
you go to New York for a season you ’ll be almost 
sure to run across Richard Grosvenor! He knew 
Mrs. Morrison, and — ” 

“ Oh, don’t drag in Richard Grosvenor.” 

“ And if you did — you can’t tell. He was crazy 
about you — ” 

“ Now, mother.” 

“ Well, he was.’' 

“ I’m all over Richard Grosvenor, now, mother.” 

“ You ’re not. No such thing.” 

“But I am! I am! I never even answered his 
letters last fall.” 

“ His letters I ” 

“Yes. He wrote me — twice. Mrs. Morrison 
forwarded them. I never told you because you 
were so silly about him.” 

Stella shoved her chair back from the table with 
a fierce jerk and stood up. 

“ I know why you did n’t answer his letters. I 
know mighty well 1 Of course you could n’t answer 
his letters 1 Of course you could n’t, with him in col¬ 
lege right across the river, here, likely — no, sure, 
to look you up in this hole, and find out we did n’t 
know any of his Back Bay friends, not a single one 
of the young ladies whose dances he’s been usher¬ 
ing at I Oh, I’ve seen his name in the lists in the 
papers, too. I’ve got eyes, and I’ve just suffered 
for you, Lollie. Of course you could n’t write to 
him and have him come here, and find out how we 
live, and what sort of a freak I am — ” 

“ Mother!” 

“ That’s all right. I know — I’m no fool, Laurel. 


STELLA DALLAS 


269 

Oh, Lollie, please — please, go to your father just 
for a little while — just for a year or so, just long 
enough — ” 

“ No, mother. I’m not going.” 

Stella sank down in her chair. It was useless, 
futile to beat herself against this soft child’s will 
once she had set it up. Experience had taught Stella 
that a big buzzing fly is as ineffective in breaking 
through a plate-glass barrier. 

“ Well,” gloomily, “ what are you going to do 
with yourself, then? You can’t hang around a 
five-roomed apartment all your life, can you, reading 
two library books a week, and practicing on a piano 
two hours a day?” (Laurel had not taken any 
“ Courses” this winter.) “What are you going to 
do to amuse yourself, I’d like to know? ” 

“ I’ve got a plan,” nodded Laurel, smiling. 

“ Humph.” 

“ I must have something to do, of course. Busy 
people are always the happiest. I’m going to be 
very busy. I’m going to be a stenographer, mother.” 

“A what?” gasped Stella. 

“ A stenographer. I’ve thought it all out.” 

“A stenographer I A stenographer!” Stella re¬ 
peated, and a third time, “A stenographer!” 

If Laurel had said that she was going to be a 
German spy, Stella could n’t have been more 
shocked. 

“Yes, mother, dear, a stenographer. Don’t you 
see it’s the one thing I can be, and live along here 
with you, and keep up our nice times together eve¬ 
nings, at the theater and the movies? And have 
Sundays with you, and holidays, and nights? I’m 


270 STELLA DALLAS 

going to start right in, next week — this week, if I 
can — at the very best business college there is in 
this city, and work hard. It’s going to be lots of 
fun! ” 

“ Oh, no, Laurel,” Stella broke out. “ Not that! 
Not that! Please. Please.” Her voice pleaded, her 
eyes beseeched, implored. “ You would n’t do that. 
Say you would n’t. Not you. It would break my 
heart. Say you would n’t, dearie. Please — please.” 
She grasped hold of Laurel’s hand. “ Lollie, for my 
sake! It would kill me, Lollie! ” 

Laurel drew her hand away. “ Oh, come, mother. 
Don’t be silly. Don’t be a goose.” 

3 

A stenographer! Laurel, her beautiful Laurel, 
shut up all day long in an office, reeking with tobacco 
smoke? Laurel the servant of a lot of men, taking 
dictation, taking orders? Laurel wearing paper 
cuffs and elastic bands and pencils in her hair; eat¬ 
ing lunch out of a box with a lot of other girls, also 
wearing paper cuffs and elastic bands and pencils 
in their hair? No. No. It mustn’t be. It simply 
must n’t be. Why, even she herself would n’t have 
been a stenographer. 

Stella lay wide awake in the bed beside Laurel. It 
was nearly two o’clock. Laurel had slept like a 
baby — sweetly, steadily, all night long so far. She 
had n’t changed her position. Twice Stella had risen 
and lit the light to see what time it was, had stopped 
a moment by the side of the bed, and gazed down 
upon Laurel. 

“ Like a lovely Sleeping Beauty, she is. Oh, my 


STELLA DALLAS 


271 

God, she can’t be a stenographer! ” It would be 
like planting an orchid between the cobblestones at 
the corner of Washington and Winter Streets to 
stick Laurel in front of a typewriter, Inside of one 
of the big grimy office-buildings downtown. She’d 
get all dust and dirt and trampled and spoiled in no 
time. She must n’t be sacrificed like that! Why, 
New York would go simply crazy about Lollie. It 
would exclaim over her, oh-and-ah over her, like 
the people at the Horticultural Shows over some new 
amazing flower. ‘‘Oh, gracious, what can I do? 
What can I do to save the kid? ” 

She must do something, and quick — now. Laurel 
was all ready to show now. Next year, the year 
after — too late. She’d be touched, handled, brown 
on the edges. There’d be a story about her — a 
tale. “ She was once a stenographer, you know.” 
People would whisper, “ Really! You don’t say! ” 
And eyebrows would be raised. That must not 
occur. Whatever it cost, by whatever means, that 
must he avoided. 

About three o’clock in the morning Stella crawled 
out of bed and, wrapping herself up in a blanket, 
sat down on the window-seat by the open window. 
She could always think clearer In a vertical position. 
“ If It was n’t for me. Laurel would go. I’m the 
reason she’s tossing aside her opportunity, dump¬ 
ing her happiness overboard, as if it was so much 
rubbish, and then scrapping herself — her lovely 
self, all ready to sail (yes, that’s what she’s like, 
too — a ship, beautifully made — beautifully fitted 
out). Oh, gracious, what can I do? She’s ruining 
her life for me — for a big old water-logged hulk 


STELLA DALLAS 


^72 

like me, (The Lord knows how I happen to be her 
mother. Talk about miracles!) Oh, why could n’t I 
have whiffed out last summer at that hotel when I 
was so sick? She’d have gone to New York then, 
just as a matter of course. She’d be there, now, 
to-day. She’d be under steam this minute, admired, 
desired, flags flying, sun shining. ‘ As long as you ’re 
alive.’ Those were her words. Oh, why could n’t I 
whiff out nowf Say, why couldn’t I feel a little 
dizzy and topple over out of the window, down 
there on the concrete — it’s four stories — and 
clear the job up quick — right now, and no more 
talk? 

“ No, I can’t. I’m afraid. I have n’t the nerve. 
I have n’t the guts. It might only smash me up. 
Poison would be better, or gas, or a revolver. 
Poison — what kind? Gas — how long would it 
take? A revolver — where were they bought? How 
did you load them ? Oh, it would be horrid — hor¬ 
rid! I wonder if I dare.” 

Stella got down from the window-seat and went 
over to the bed. The early light of dawn was in the 
room now, like gray smoke. She stood looking down 
at Laurel through the thick intangible haze for a 
long time — for a minute, for two minutes, for three 
minutes, perhaps. 

“Ought I? Oh, gracious, ought I?” she whis¬ 
pered. 

The memory of a certain other early morning, 
when she had stood thus and gazed down upon the 
sweetly sleeping, defenseless child, recurred to Stella. 
Then, also, as now, she had whispered, “Ought I? 
Oh, gracious, ought I?” It was when the doctors 


STELLA DALLAS 


^73 

were due to arrive in a few hours to perform an 
operation upon Lollie — years ago, a slight opera¬ 
tion, only tonsils — but they were going to make 
her limp and lifeless, and cut her with a knife. 

“ Ought I again cut her with a knife? ” 

It would hurt her, of course — poor kid — at 
first. Her face would get all white with horror and 
dismay. “ But she’d be rid of me — free, and after 
a while she’d forget it. She’s young, she’d get over 
it. Or would it also be a story — a tale, to whisper 
about behind Laurel’s back. ‘ Her mother com¬ 
mitted suicide!’ ‘You don’t mean it!’ ‘And her 
father’s father, too, so I’ve heard.’ ‘ Really.’ 

‘ Runs in the blood on both sides.’ ‘ How shock¬ 
ing!’” Years ago Stella had read in a magazine 
somewhere that suicidal tendencies were inherited. 
She recalled it now. Heavens! What if Laurel 
should grow up and read that, too? Good Lord, it 
might make her afraid for herself if it was on both 
sides! She must be saved that horror. A wave of 
relief swept over Stella. 

“ I must think of some other way.” She went 
back to the window-seat again. “ Oh, how scared 
I was! What a snivelling coward I am I ” 

All the next day she submitted compromise after 
compromise to Laurel. She would keep a servant 
if only Laurel would go to New York. She would 
keep two servants, a companion; two companions, 
return to an apartment hotel, if only — if only — 
But Laurel simply shrugged her shoulders. 

Again and again that day Stella was forced to 
face the unwelcome consideration of discovering 
some method of whiffing out that might not arouse 


STELLA DALLAS 


274 

suspicion. Slipping down in front of an automobile, 
making a mistake about sleeping-powders. It 
might be done. But, oh, she did n’t want to die 
that way. Not that she was much on religion, but 
she did n’t want to take any such chances with im¬ 
mortality. There must be some other way. 

It was sometime during the course of the sec¬ 
ond night, when she was wearied and exhausted 
almost to the breaking point, that the “ some other 
way ” flashed across Stella’s mental field of vision. 
The first consciousness of It made her feel queer 
and hollow inside for a moment. It was like having 
a messenger suddenly run onto the scene with your 
pardon, just when you were settling yourself in the 
electric chair. 

Tremblingly, anxiously, she groped her way 
across the hall to her desk In the front room. If 
only she could find the address. It was on a card. 
She had never thrown the card away. It must be 
somewhere. Oh, what if Laurel in one of her raids 
upon the cluttered desk had torn It up, tossed It 
aside? What if it was ashes now? She had no 
other clue. If the card was lost, she was lost. 
“ Help me find it. Help me find it.” It was about 
the size of a calling-card, a little larger, very grimy, 
because she had carried It about In her shopping- 
bag for a long while. Here! This looked like It! 
Yes, this was it! No, It was n’t! Yes, It was. Yes! 
Yes! She had found it. She held it up close to the 
electric light. 

Alfred Munn, 

172 North Blank Street, 

Boston, Mass. 


STELLA DALLAS 


275 

She’d go to bed now. She’d go to sleep. 
“ Thanks, oh, thanks,” she said on her knees three 
minutes later. “ Do please help me bring this busi¬ 
ness out all right.” 

Stella as well as Laurel was sleeping soundly 
and sweetly at dawn on the second morning. 


CHAPTER XXII 

1 

Stella set forth in quest of 172 North Blank 
Street the next afternoon. She might have written, 
of course. If it had been a matter of less im¬ 
portance she would have written. When Ed had 
given her this address he had meant that she should 
write. 

“ Uncle Sam will find me here,” he had told her. 
“ Drop me a line sometime when the offspring’s 
away and you ’re feeling lonesome.” 

That was over a year ago, when she had chanced 
to run across Ed one afternoon in the lobby of a 
moving-picture theater. She had n’t seen him since. 
She had n’t heard from him since. He might feel 
entirely different about her now. A year was an 
awfully long time. Perhaps he would n’t want to 
marry her now. Perhaps he’d never really wanted 
to marry her. He had always laughed when he 
had suggested it, and she had always laughed back, 
when she had refused his crazy offers. For years 
it had been sort of a huge joke on both sides. She 
guessed Ed would be surprised to be taken seriously 
all of a sudden. She did hope he hadn’t married 
anybody else. Not that she could imagine such a 
thing. Ed was n’t a bit the marrying kind, but just 
hoping so hard made her think of all sorts of catas¬ 
trophes. Perhaps he’d moved away from Boston 
entirely. Perhaps he was dead, or perhaps — what 


STELLA DALLAS 


277 

if she was n’t attractive to him any more? She was 
a whole year older, and a whole year after you ’re 
forty — well I 

He’d find her alimony attractive, anyway, she 
guessed. Ed had n’t been very successful in his va¬ 
rious business ventures. But say — look here, there 
wouldn’t be any alimony, would there, if she mar¬ 
ried again? Hadn’t there been some such clause? 
She had never given it much thought because she 
had been so dead sure she never was going to 
marry again. Gracious, she had n’t thought of that. 
Well, never mind, she could contribute something 
in the way of funds. She had a savings-bank ac¬ 
count amounting to over a thousand dollars. That 
was n’t to be sneezed at. Last time she had seen 
Ed, it looked to her as if he had n’t a bank-account 
amounting to anything. 

“ I’m sort of out of luck this year,” he’d told her 
apologetically. (The lining of his overcoat had 
been frayed and ragged round the cuffs. H'e had 
caught her looking at it.) “ But I can still give you 
a good time, little girl, just the same. See? ” He 
had opened his overcoat. She had caught a glimpse 
of a bottle shining. He had patted it tenderly. 
“ More where this comes from, too,” he had 
winked, “ but say, it’s awful expensive stuff now. 
Awful I Dearer ’n a woman! Prohibition has 
played the devil and all with my capital, Stella.” 
No. Ed might not scorn her little nest-egg. 

She became more and more convinced he might 
not as she approached the vicinity of the address on 
the card. She had never been down this way be¬ 
fore. Why, it was slums — regular slums I North 


STELLA DALLAS 


278 

Blank Street was a narrow, roughly-cobbled sort of 
alley. There was a row of low brick houses on each 
side, dilapidated and out of repair. There was a 
dark damp look to the alley and a dark damp smell, 
too, that reminded Stella of underground cellar 
stairs. Unlike most of the other doorways in North 
Blank Street, 172 still had all three of its digits 
clinging to the battered brown paint. Stella, stand¬ 
ing on the narrow sidewalk, reached up over the two 
front steps and knocked loudly just below the num¬ 
ber. She knocked three times, then receiving no an¬ 
swer, turned the loose knob and walked in. 

“ Anybody here? she called up the rickety stair¬ 
way. 

“What yer want?’* A young woman of about 
twenty, with a mop of black bushy hair, cut short, 
stuck her head out of a door at the rear of the hall. 

Stella told her. 

“ What do you want of him? ’’ the young woman 
demanded eyeing Stella with interest. 

“ I want to see him on business.” 

“ Ma,” called the woman in a powerful voice. 
“ Here’s a lady wants to see Munn on business.” 

“ Ma ” came to have a look at Stella, too. Both 
mother and daughter stared at Stella with hard 
suspicious eyes. It did n’t make Stella flush. She 
did n’t blame them. It did look funny. 

“ He ain’t here any more,” crisply “ Ma ” told 
Stella. 

“Oh, ain’t he?” groaned Stella. 

“ No, he ain’t. This is a respectable place. This 
ain’t no dope-den.” 

“ Do you know where he has gone? 


STELLA DALLAS 


279 


“ Nope.” 

“ I do, Ma. He’s over at Liz Halloran’s. She 
was tellin’ me ’bout him.” 

Eagerly Stella turned toward the younger woman. 
“ Say, take me there. Take me there now, I got 
to see him.” 

But she did n’t see him. Not that day. Liz 
Halloran, a thin haggard old woman with no front 
teeth had told Stella, standing in her miserable 
black hole of a doorway (like the opening into the 
cavity of a decayed tooth, it was), that he wa’n’t 
fit to be seen to-day. “ He’s just layin’ there like 
dead to-day.” 

“How often does he get this way?” Stella in¬ 
quired. 

“Oh, off and on, I don’t know! I don’t keep 
track. Could n’t get no hooch. That’s what 
done it.” 

“ When do you think I could see him? ” 

“ Oh, he ’ll be rousin’ up to-morrow or the day 
after. He ’ll be real bright for a spell, too.” 

“ I ’ll come day after to-morrow,” said Stella. 

2 

An hour later, as Stella sat gazing out of the 
window of an electric car that was bearing her back 
to the apartment and Laurel, she kept saying to her¬ 
self, grimly, doggedly, “ I can stand it. I was n’t 
brought up in a pink-and-white nursery, thank God! 
I shan’t mind it after awhile. I’m tough as tripe. 
Anyhow, it’s better than jumping off the Harvard 
Bridge.” 


28 o 


STELLA DALLAS 


3 

Ten days later, nonchalantly to Laurel, Stella re¬ 
marked one morning, “ I shan’t be here, most like¬ 
ly, when you get back this afternoon. Laurel.” 
Laurel was attending business college daily now. 
“ I’ve got an invitation for luncheon and the 
matinee.” 

“ An invitation? From whom, mother? ” 

Stella smiled. “ I have n’t got so many admirers. 
I guess you can guess.” 

The color flooded to Laurel’s cheeks. “ Mother, 
not Mr. MunnI You haven’t accepted an invita¬ 
tion from Mr. Munn ! ” 

“ I’d like to know why I have n’t! ” 

“ Knowing how I feel about him — how I dis¬ 
like him.” 

“Gracious, Lollie! Honestly, it’s funny! You 
act as if you were the mother, and I the child.” 

“ Mother, you have n’t been seeing that creature 
again, have you? ” 

“ That creature! How you talk! Why, Laurel, 
Ed’s a real nice man.” 

“ I don’t want to discuss him, mother. I don’t 
want to hear you stand up for him. I don’t see 
why you ’re bringing him up again. I thought we’d 
decided we’d drop him long ago.” 

“ You mean you decided it. I never did. Mercy, 
I’ve got to have a little independence. With you 
away so much every day. Laurel, and nothing for 
me to do, I’d be a very foolish woman indeed, to 
allow a notion of yours to cheat me out of a little 
harmless entertainment.” 


STELLA DALLAS 


281 


Thus did Stella proceed. She must n’t marry Ed 
immediately, out of a clear sky, on top of the dis¬ 
cussion with Laurel following her return from New 
York. Laurel might smell a rat. There must be 
no blundering this time. Ed must be slipped onto 
the field of action naturally, inadvertently. Funny 
how things worked around. That which Ed had 
been years ago between herself and her husband, 
through carelessness and indifference, now^ to-day, 
through diligence and effort, she must make him 
become again, between herself and her child — an 
issue, a sore point, a bone of contention. Not until 
then would the time be ripe to marry Ed. Steadily, 
unswervingly, Stella set herself to her task. 

It was easier than she had supposed. Laurel’s 
hostility to Ed was so white-hot that even a refer¬ 
ence to him kindled a controversy. Therefore 
Stella referred to him frequently in a light and in¬ 
consequential vein, laughing at Laurel’s opposition. 
Not only did she refer to Ed, but she saw him; she 
made engagements with him; she kept engage¬ 
ments with him; she stayed out with him until after 
one o’clock on one occasion; failed to appear for 
supper, or to telephone, on another. One after¬ 
noon, defiantly, she established Ed in an armchair 
in the living-room of the apartment, and arranged 
that Laurel, due home from downtown, should find 
him when she came in. She repeated this a week 
later. Oh, it was too bad. She hated to watch 
the slow torture her procedure was to the child. 
But it could n’t be avoided. Somehow she must 
make her marriage to Ed seem logical. 

Laurel’s light laughter faded, disappeared; the 


a82 


STELLA DALLAS 


soft light in her eyes hardened like a disillusioned 
lover’s. Night after night she lay, on the extreme 
edge of the bed, beside her mother, silent and un¬ 
relenting, and drifted into an unrefreshing sleep. 
She grew years older. 

One afternoon in early June, after a particu¬ 
larly difficult morning of argument with her mother 
about Alfred Munn (afterwards Stella had called 
good-bye to Lollie out of the front window, but 
she wouldn’t answer), she returned to the apart¬ 
ment to find it empty. There was a note fastened to 
the handle of the oven-door on the gas-stove in the 
kitchen. Laurel discovered it when she went out to 
get some supper. 

Dear Lollie [the note said] 

I guess you won’t be much surprised. I guess you’ve 
sort of seen the way the wind was blowing. Ed has wanted 
me to marry him for years, and as I had n’t any good reason 
not to now, I ’ll be Mrs. Alfred Munn when you read 
this. I would of told you all about it, but I knew how 
you felt about poor Ed, and it would only of meant 
more fuss. 

Ed’s got a grand job down in South America, and he’s 
crazy to have me go down there with him. You know I 
never had much of a chance to travel, and it seems a big 
chance for me. So I’m jumping at it. We may be gone 
a year or two. I ’ll send you an address when we get one. 

I’ve had this up my sleeve quite a long while, marrying 
Ed, I mean. You can’t explain everything to a child. TL'hat 
was why I hoped you’d stay with your father. But when 
you didn’t, of course I had to keep my promise to Ed just 
the same. It would n’t of been fair if I did n’t, and he 
would n’t listen to anything else. He’s been waiting for 
me all the time you’ve been growing up, and I won’t say I 
have n’t been waiting, too. I’ve tried my best to make you 
see Ed the way I do, these last weeks, but you just won’t, 


STELLA DALLAS 283 

so I Ve given up trying, and gone ahead and done what I 
think is right. 

Ed and I will be back and close up the apartment, some¬ 
time before we sail. I guess we all three can fit in some¬ 
how. I expect you to be nice to him though, now he’s your 
sort of father. 

When you ’re out, leave the key under the mat, same as 
usual. Ed and I may be back anytime. 

Love from 

Your Mother 

P.S. It was too bad you would n’t turn round this morning 
and wave good-bye. 


4 

Stephen and Helen, returning late from town the 
next evening to their summer home on Long Island 
(they had just moved down), were surprised upon 
entering the hall to hear a sound in the living- 
room — a chair suddenly shoved back, soft swift 
foot-steps. They stepped to the door of the room. 

It was Laurel! She still wore her hat. Her suit¬ 
case still stood by the chair where she had been 
sitting. 

“ Why, Laurel I Why, my dear 1 ” exclaimed 
Stephen, exclaimed Helen, both hastening toward 
her. 

They met her in the middle of the room. They 
kissed her — both of them. She returned neither 
caress. 

“ What is it. Laurel? ” 

She was very white. Her eyes had a startled, 
frightened expression. 

“ I’ve come back,” she said quietly. “ I ’ll stay 
now, if you want me — if you ’ll take me.” She made 
no gesture, her expression did not change. There 
was fixed calmness about her as hard as adamant. 


STELLA DALLAS 


284 

“ What has happened, Laurel? ” 

“ I Ve been put out. I’ve no other place to go 
but here. If you don’t want me — if — ” 

“You know we want you!” exclaimed Helen. 
“Dear child! Come. Sit down. You’re tired. 
You’ve had a long journey. Why, you have n’t even 
taken off your hat.” 

Laurel remarked, not moving, making no sign 
of response, “ Mother has married,” and after a 
pause, “ Mother has married.” It was like the 
wailing of a tolling bell. 

Stephen said, “ Oh! ” 

Helen said, “ I shall take off your hat myself.” 
And quickly, deftly, she removed the small toque 
and laid it aside on a table. Laurel standing listless 
and indifferent beneath her administrating hands. 
“ There! That’s better. Why, you must have 
been waiting a long time,” lightly she went on. 
“ You ought to have telephoned when you reached 
New York.” 

“ She’s married Alfred Munn, father,” said 
Laurel to Stephen, and after a pause again, “ She’s 
married Alfred Munn,” as if the tolling bell had 
changed its note. 

Helen touched Laurel gently on her shoulder. 
“ Come upstairs to your room now,” she said. 
“We ’ll talk about it in the morning. I’m going to 
give you some food and put you to bed now.” 

“ Father, you knew him. You could n’t stand 
him either. I understand now. I see. Of course 
you could n’t live with her. I could n’t live with 
her myself.” 

“ Don’t take it so hard, Lollie,” said Stephen. 


STELLA DALLAS 


285 


“ Don’t call me Lollie I ” 

“ Don’t suffer so, dear.” 

“ I’m not suffering. I’m not suffering at all.” 

“ Will you bring up Laurel’s suitcase, Stephen? ” 
asked Helen. “ Come, Laurel.” She slipped a 
steadying arm through Laurel’s. “ You must go 
to bed now.” 


5 

They mounted together to the lavender-tinted 
room, which Helen had told Stella last summer 
would be Laurel’s. (“She’ll be sleeping in that, 
I suppose,” Stella had remarked, from the threshold 
of the room, as she had gazed upon the bed, 
fresh and crisp with muslin valance and canopy. 
“ I ’ll be thinking of her in that,” and she had wiped 
her eyes.) Helen recalled the scene, the voice, the 
tears, as now she set about preparing with her own 
hands the waiting bed for that absent woman’s child. 

Behind her Laurel was standing, here, as down¬ 
stairs, impassive and indifferent, just where Helen 
had left her when she withdrew her arm that had 
guided her hither. 

“ Come. We ’ll undress now.” 

“ Mother has married a man I hate.” Laurel 
took up the interrupted motif again. “ She’s mar¬ 
ried a man she knew I hated. She has chosen him 
instead of me. She has married Ed Munn. He’s 
awful. He’s horrible. An animal is clean beside 
him. And she likes him. My mother! She’s fond 
of him. She’s been waiting for years to marry 
him.” 

“ Oh, no. Laurel.” 


186 


STELLA DALLAS 


“Yes, she has. I know. Read that. Read 
that.” 

She drew her mother’s letter from the front of 
her dress, and passed it to Helen. 

“ Do you want me to? ” 

Laurel nodded. 

Helen sat down on the foot of the bed and opened 
the folded sheets. The letter had been written by 
Stella in pencil, carelessly, in haste apparently. It 
was read by Helen slowly, painstakingly, as if it 
had been written in blood. She read it twice. 
Afterwards she looked up at Laurel. 

Laurel gave a little shrug. “You see.” 

“ Yes, I think I see,” said Helen slowly. 

“ I thought it was for me she gave father the 
divorce, so I could come and be with you. And 
it made me glad. It made me proud. But I was 
mistaken. It was for him. It was to marry him, 
that creature. He’s her kind, down underneath. 
She is his kind. She chose him. Father’s right. 
The others are right. I’m the one who’s been 
wrong about her all this time. Oh, Mrs. Morri¬ 
son, she’s killed my respect for her, and she knew 
she would — we have been quarreling about that 
man for weeks — she knew she would I But she 
did n’t care. She did n’t care.” Thus pitilessly Laurel 
sunk her sharp young teeth into the hand that hurt. 

Helen murmured, “ Greater love hath no woman 
than this.” 

Laurel did n’t hear her. “ I’m very unhappy, 
Mrs. Morrison,” she stated dully. 

Helen replied, “ You are very tired. You need 
sleep. Does it fasten behind? ” 


STELLA DALLAS 287 

Very tenderly, as if she were handling a precious 
body from which life had departed, Helen un¬ 
fastened Laurel’s dress. She slipped it off her 
shoulders. It fell to the floor. Bare-armed, bare¬ 
shouldered, a shiver ran through Laurel — like a 
breeze rippling a docile sail. Helen put both arms 
about her shelteringly. 

“ Oh, Mrs. Morrison! Mrs. Morrison! ” Laurel 
cried out at the touch, and suddenly the storm broke, 
the long withheld flood burst, the boat tossed, the 
sail strained and pulled. But Helen’s hand was 
firm and steady on the tiller. She held Laurel close. 

“That’s right. Cry. You’ll feel better. Cry. 
Cry.” 

Later in the morning, she would show Laurel 
the rainbow. 

6 

When Helen went downstairs half an hour later 
she found Stephen in the big room waiting for her. 
He had been smoking ever since she left him — the 
ash-tray bore witness to that — and walking up and 
down the room. The two Sheraton armchairs had 
been carelessly shoved out of their usual places to 
clear a straight path from the fireplace to the win¬ 
dow. As Helen entered the room she replaced one 
of the chairs, apparently unaware of Stephen’s 
agitation. 

“ Well? ” said Stephen at sight of her. 

Helen looked up at him and smiled. 

“ She’s asleep,” she said, and started to replace 
the other chair. 

“Poor child. Poor child!” Stephen broke out 
in a tone that was almost a groan. “ It’s torture 


288 


STELLA DALLAS 


to me to think my own child should have to bear 
the burden of my mistake like this.” 

Immediately Helen crossed the room to Stephen. 
He was standing by the fireplace staring down 
upon the unlighted logs. 

“ Why, Stephen,” she said gently, reassuringly, 
“ she ’ll be better in the morning. It’s hard to see 
her suffer, I know, but it’s mostly from shock. In 
a day or two she ’ll see clearer.” 

“ See clearer I ” Stephen exclaimed bitterly. 
“ Why, Helen, don’t you know who the man is 
whom Stella has married?” he inquired. 

” Yes, I know.” 

“ Well! ” he shrugged. “ Don’t you see it justi¬ 
fies our suspicions? For Laurel’s sake I hoped they 
might never be justified. I did n’t want the evi¬ 
dence which Morley Smith brought to my attention 
several years ago forced before me for considera¬ 
tion again. For Laurel’s sake I ’ve hoped there 
was that spark of controlling decency in her mother 
that would n’t accept intimate relations with a man 
like Munn, even though she could endure his so¬ 
ciety. That hope has gone. This act of hers has 
destroyed it.” 

Helen gazed at Stephen and shook her head 
slowly, wonderingly. “ You, too? ” she murmured. 

He did n’t hear her. 

“ To think,” he went on, still bitterly, still de¬ 
spairingly— ” to think she chose, of her free will, 
existence with a man like Munn after Laurel had 
given up everything to be with her! To think she 
was willing to allow her child’s wonderful love for 
her, her child’s wonderful loyalty to her, to become 
shame and scorn! To think of it! ” 


STELLA DALLAS 289 

“Yes, to think of it!” repeated Helen, softly, 
starry-eyed. 

“What do you mean?” demanded Stephen, 
looking at her sharply. Why did she speak like 
that? 

Helen replied slowly, distinctly, looking at 
Stephen. “ Laurel is here. She is here to stay. Who 
has accomplished it?” 

He did n’t answer her — just looked at her a mo¬ 
ment, then shook his head, and gazed down again 
into the dead logs in the fireplace. 

Helen placed her hand very lightly on one of his 
folded arms. 

“ She has always been judged just by appear¬ 
ances,” she said in a low earnest tone, “ valued just 
by impressions. Some people go through life with 
nobody seeing the good in them because of the 
blurred, unbeautiful reflection they give back. 
‘ Now we see through a glass, darkly.’ I think 
it means in a mirror indistinctly — a dim, dull, im¬ 
perfect mirror. It seems as if everybody saw 
Stella ‘ through a glass, darkly,’ Stephen, even her 
own child to-night.” 

She withdrew her hand. Stephen replied, still 
staring into the lifeless fireplace, “ I lived with 
her. I knew her.” 

“Oh, but, Stephen — ” 

“ My dear, my dear,” he interrupted tenderly, 
fondly. How strange that Helen should be the 
one to try to show him the good in Stella! “You 
see with the eyes of an angel.” 

“ No, I don’t,” said Helen prosaically. “ Simply 
'with the eyes of a mother, Stephen.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 
1 

The proof that Helen’s rainbow was real — no 
illusion, no mirage — came in the form of a shadow 
the following fall. It is dark by five o’clock in the 
afternoon in New York in November. Returning 
one late afternoon with Laurel from a tea, where 
with a dozen other girls of her own age she had 
been assisting (nominally assisting, but really, like, 
the others, simply submitting herself to the demands 
of a crowd of young men blocking the entrance to 
the room cleared for dancing), Helen observed, as 
she left the car and crossed the sidewalk to her own 
door a shadow, a stationary shadow cast upon the 
sidewalk. 

There was an alley ran down to a rear entrance 
at the spot where the shadow fell. There was a 
light a few feet down the alley. The light was 
dim. But in spite of the unrecognizable shape of 
the blurred outline of the shadow, it had startled 
Helen into a sudden suspicion. 

Once inside the house she had mounted to an 
upper room, where there was no light, where she 
would attract no attention, and raising the drawn 
shade in a bay-window, gazed down into the alley, 
just back of the spot where the shadow had lain. 

There was no one there now. 

Quickly she turned and raised the shade of the 
window opposite. This window looked toward the 


STELLA DALLAS 


291 

rear of the house and commanded a view of the 
narrow, illy-lighted tunnel, along which towered 
the high, spiked walls of several scores of rear 
entrances. Proceeding along this tunnel, closely 
skirting the high spiked walls, Helen could make out 
the outline of a woman — a short stocky woman. 
Twice she stopped and looked back at Helen’s roof. 

Helen’s first impulse was to raise the window — 
to call. She hesitated. It might not be she. The 
Jolley lights were dim and far away. And if it 
proved to be, was it wise to establish communi¬ 
cation with her when she was taking such pains 
to avoid it? No. Laurel’s mother knew best. 
The minute she became even a recognized shadow 
in her child’s life she ran the risk of defeating the 
object of her sacrifice. 

Laurel believed her mother was somewhere in 
South America and submitted without protest to the 
futility of locating her, submitted, too, without pro¬ 
test to the futility of breaking her determined si¬ 
lence. If she even suspected that her mother was 
near by in hiding somewhere, watching, looking on 
in the old eager anxious way, she would not be con¬ 
tent till she had found her; and if she found her, and 
if it proved, indeed, that it was as Helen had per¬ 
suaded her to hope, that her mother had married 
Alfred Munn for her sake, as likely as not — no, 
more likely than not — Laurel would insist upon 
returning to her mother under whatever circum¬ 
stances. She was capable of it. 

Laurel was almost her old self now. She smiled 
again, laughed again, shone and glowed again over 
old delights and joys, over new delights and joys. 


STELLA DALLAS 


292 

Occasionally the troubled, hurt look would steal 
across her features. And at such times Helen knew 
that Laurel was doubting again, suffering again, 
longing to be brought face to face with actual proof 
of her mother’s high motive. But it was better 
that the doubts should remain than that her mother’s 
act of self-abnegation should be robbed of its fruit. 
Helen pulled down the window-shade and went 
downstairs. 

It was not until she was in her own room with 
her door closed, with the window draperies drawn 
close, seated before her dressing-table brushing her 
shining hair, that she thought about the alimony. 
Stephen had felt just as she had when she first 
broached the subject to him, that of course Laurel’s 
mother must live as she was accustomed to live 
whatever had been the terms of the divorce. So 
far, however, Stephen had failed to establish com¬ 
munication of any sort with Stella. She had left 
her Boston apartment as a bird a nest, and the route 
she had taken was as trackless, as scentless as the 
bird’s through the air. 

She had left no trace of any kind, an3rwhere — 
not even with her lawyer, not even with her bank 
from which she had withdrawn her account. Since 
her marriage to Alfred Munn not a single check of 
Stephen’s had been cashed by her. Not a single 
check had even been received by her. They were 
returned to Stephen unopened, with the recurring 
announcement “ Not known ” in the corner of the 
envelope. 

Helen looked into eyes that were troubled as 
she gazed into the mirror before her. “ It might 


STELLA DALLAS 


^93 

have been she! She might need money! Should I 
have called, after all?” Usually Helen could de¬ 
pend upon her first instinct in regard to such mat¬ 
ters. Her first instinct had said, “ No.” By the 
time Helen’s hair was rolled again in its soft knot 
at the back of her head, her eyes had lost their 
troubled look. Of what importance was money 
to a woman who was willing to pay for her child’s 
happiness with the child’s love if it menaced that 
happiness? And communication, even secret com¬ 
munication, zvould menace it. It was far safer that 
she, Helen herself, should remain in doubt as to 
Stella’s hiding-place. It was necessary to be so 
very honest with Laurel. Helen, too, must not 
know but that Stella was beyond call in some far 
country. She must n’t allow herself even to look 
for the shadow again. She must n’t tell any one 
about it. Oh, Stella should not be defeated, if 
Helen could help it. 


2 

But others were not as protective of the shadow. 
That same evening, a few hundred miles away, 
in a dainty and exquisite drawing-room in Mil- 
hampton, Massachusetts, four women in dainty and 
exquisite gowns stood before an open fire, stirring 
black coffee with tiny gold spoons in tiny porcelain 
cups. Their motions were as dainty and exquisite 
as the room, as their gowns. So, too, were their 
voices and their accents. 

They chatted lightly, inconsequently, touching now 
one subject, now another, like humming-birds pass¬ 
ing from one flower to another, whiling the time 


STELLA DALLAS 


294 

away In as amusing a manner as possible till the men 
should join them for bridge. 

“ Oh, yes,” sighed Phyllis, “ one sees the name 
of Laurel Dallas In the New York society columns 
frequently now. The new Mrs. Dallas is doing her 
best for the child. I call it awfully decent.” 

“ Oh, It shouldn’t be difficult,” said Myrtle, ‘‘with 
her social position.” 

“And the child Is really very pretty,” Mrs. Kay 
Bird contributed. “ That helps. There Is n’t a sug¬ 
gestion of her mother in her.” 

“How fortunate! What has become of that 
dreadful woman, anyhow? ” asked Rosamond. 

“ Oh! Have n’t you heard, my dear? ” Mrs. Kay 
Bird raised slim bare shoulders In surprise. “ Myrtle, 
have n’t you told Rosamond you saw the poor thing 
in New York last time you were down? ” 

“ I have n’t seen Rosamond. I returned only night 
before last.” 

“ Oh, well, tell her. Do. Prepare yourself for 
a choice bit, Rosamond.” 

Rosamond placed her empty coffee-cup on the 
mantel and curled up cozily in a corner of the 
cushioned divan. 

“ Tell me first, please, about the divorce. You 
know I was in Europe all last year. I did n’t get 
a bit of the gossip, and there was no account of it In 
the papers sent me.” 

“ There was no account of It In any of the 
papers,” Mrs. Kay Bird informed her. “ Stephen 
Dallas obtained his divorce without even a flutter 
of a struggle, which does not surprise any of us who 
know the facts. We agree with the former Mrs. 


STELLA DALLAS 


295 

Dallas, it would have been very unwise for her to 
contest her husband’s charges.” 

“ Oh, did he make charges? ” 

“ That’s the usual proceeding, my dear.” 

“ And what were they? ” 

“Well, he lives in New York. You know the 
New York laws, I suppose.” 

Shrugs. Soft laughter. 

“ And the child,” Phyllis added, “ was put im¬ 
mediately into the custody of her father.” 

“Oh, dear! You never can tell what a woman is 
at the core, can you? ” deplored Rosamond. “ Why, 
when we first knew Stella Dallas she did n’t seem 
really bad^ though she always was awfully ordinary, 
of course. Even after that time you saw her at 
Belcher’s Beach, Myrtle, I couldn’t believe she’d 
really fallen as low as that. I thought you must be 
mistaken.” 

“Tell Rosamond about New York, Myrtle,” said 
Mrs. Kay Bird. 

Myrtle placed her coffee-cup on the mantel; too, 
and extending a slender hand to a silver box near 
by, selected a cigarette. 

“ I saw Stella Dallas in New York, Rosamond,” 
she announced impressively. “ I saw her down near 
Washington Square. I was down that way seeing a 
friend of mine who has the most fascinating studio 
in an old stable. I saw Stella Dallas with the Munn 
man again! They seemed to be on quite familiar 
fprms ” 

“Did you, really?” 

“ It was not a pretty sight, I assure you. The 
Munn man was intoxicated, I think. Anyway, she 


STELLA DALLAS 


296 

had to help him walk. I won’t say she was intoxi¬ 
cated, too, because I don’t know that she was, but 
she did n’t look right. And she has coarsened — 
oh, terribly, girls! A woman of that sort always 
does. And has lost her self-respect as to appear¬ 
ances, as is also usual, I believe. Her clothes were 
really shabby and his were in actual rags. City’s 
dregs — that’s all I could think of as I looked 
at them — city’s dregs.” 

“ How unpleasant,” shuddered Rosamond. 

“ Disgusting, was my word,” said Phyllis. 

“ Revolting, was mine,” laughed Mrs. Kay Bird. 
Myrtle extended a languid arm. “ Please pass me 
the matches, Phyllis. Thank you, dear. She’s a 
depraved woman, girls,” she announced. “ Always 
was, and always will be. Oh, here come the men.” 
She flipped her match into the open fire. “ Let’s 
cut for partners.” 


3 

Miss Laurel Dallas was to be formally pre¬ 
sented to New York Society at a tea given at the 
home of her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Dallas, 
on the afternoon of November the twenty-first, from 
four until seven-thirty o’clock. Several luncheons 
in her honor were scheduled for the week following 
the tea; also several dinners. The names of Miss 
Dallas’s various hostesses were mentioned. So was 
the fact that Brightswood, her parents’ summer 
home at Green Hills, Long Island, was to be opened 
over the Thanksgiving holiday, and filled with a 
house-party, including a number of this season’s 
debutantes. One of the most anticipated affairs of 


STELLA DALLAS 


297 

the season was the ball to be given for Miss Dallas 
in early January. So the papers said; so the va¬ 
rious society columns repeated and repeated again. 
“ Miss Dallas is one of the most popular debutantes 
of the season, etc., etc.” (“oh, she’ll like that,” 
thought Helen to herself), “whose picture is 
printed below ” (“ she ’ll cut that out,” she smiled). 

Helen avoided newspaper notoriety usually. 
Stephen wondered at her willingness to allow 
Laurel’s name to appear frequently in print, and 
in conspicuous print. 

He wondered at another sudden oddity of Helen’s. 
The servants wondered at it, too. In fact it was 
one of the servants who brought it to his attention. 
Twice, lately, upon arriving home in the late after¬ 
noon, he had noticed that the shades in the house 
were not all drawn. He had been able to look into 
Helen’s room on the second floor, and see Laurel 
seated under the light, at the piano, playing. He 
spoke to the parlor-maid. 

“ I know, sir. It hardly seems safe, sir. But it’s 
Mrs. Dallas’s orders, sir.” 

Later to Stephen Helen explained, “ But it looks 
so pretty from the street. Why shut in all our 
loveliness? I ’ll run the risk of burglars.” 

Even on the afternoon of Laurel’s tea, Helen 
ordered the shades raised. She went even further. 
With her own hands she pulled back the lace cur¬ 
tains in the bay-window where she and Laurel 
were going to stand to receive their guests. 

“ It looks out only on the alley,” she shrugged. 


298 


STELLA DALLAS 


4 

It rained on the morning of Laurel’s tea. It 
rained in torrents. 

“ Gracious, don’t it pour I ” exclaimed Stella for 
the dozenth time to the woman next to her, and 
for the dozenth time to herself, “ ’Twon’t make any 
difference, though. They’ve all got limousines.” 
Then out loud again, “ Gracious, don’t it pour I ” 

Every few minutes she looked up from the ma¬ 
chine which she had been feeding with coarse white 
cambric all the morning, and gazed anxiously out 
of the streaked window beside her toward the 
building opposite, against the dark background of 
which she could see the rain sweeping. 

About noon she exclaimed, “ Say, it looks lights 
erl Say, don’t it look lighter to you?” Then, 
‘‘ It is letting up. It looks to me as though it was 
letting up a little.” And finally, “ Gosh, it’s going 
to clear off ! ” And it did I 

At five o’clock that afternoon, when Stella, with 
a hundred or so other women, emerged from the 
big black building through the little opening at the 
bottom (like the opening cut at the bottom of a big 
black hogshead; every little while a thin dark stream 
of humanity would pour out of the building; it 
housed over a hundred small factories), the air was 
clear and crisp and cold. Stella stepped out of the 
little stream, once on the sidewalk, stood still, and 
gazed straight up. Yes! It was all right 1 The stars 
were shining like mad, up there, at the top of the 
canyon, beyond the dizzy precipices. 


CHAPTER XXIV 
I 

This was Stella’s fifth week in the shirt-waist fac¬ 
tory. She must be getting used to it, she guessed. 
She did n’t feel a bit tired to-night. If it was n’t so 
late, she would n’t have minded walking the whole 
way. Laurel would be all dressed now. People 
would be just beginning to arrive. Gracious,- she 
must hustle. But she’d simply got to go over to the 
room a jiffy first. It would n’t take long. She had 
locked the door on Ed, but she always got feeling 
nervous after a whole day’s absence during the times 
he was bad. 

Stella was pretty sure that this landlady guessed 
what was the matter with Ed, but she could never 
feel certain how many of the roomers were ‘‘ on.” 
There are roomers who find it helps to pass away 
the time to make a fuss over a thing in the house 
like Ed. Stella did n’t want to have to move again. 
This landlady had been awfully decent about the 
rent since she had got a job. Gracious, but it 
had n’t taken that thousand dollars long to fade 
away. It cost something to keep yourself and a 
sick man — who has to have a “particular kind of 
medicine ” — going these days, though you did n’t 
buy yourself a single rag, nor spend a cent on 
theaters, or the movies, or desserts. 

Everything was all right at the room, thank 
heaven I Stella stopped only long enough to light 


STELLA DALLAS 


300 

the candle placed upon a chair by the door, hold it 
aloft a moment, and gaze down upon the double 
bed. Ed was still there, still harmless, breathing 
heavily, inert and consciousless. 

There was n’t much furniture in the room be¬ 
sides the bed — a commode, a table, and three 
chairs. One of the chairs was an old Morris chair. 
It was worth all the rest of the furniture put to¬ 
gether to Stella. It was Stella’s bed. The back of it 
was let down so that it extended on the same level 
as the seat. There was a blanket folded over one 
arm, and Laurel’s old worn-out, out-grown coon 
coat over the other. There was Ed’s cheap suit¬ 
case and a pillow piled up on one of the remaining 
chairs, and this was shoved up close to the end 
of the makeshift bed to lengthen it. Surprising how 
well you can sleep on an old Morris chair if you 
work hard daytimes, or even on the floor if you get 
cramped. It’s all a matter of getting used to it. 

The candle spit and sputtered as if it objected to 
the scene it lighted. Stella did n’t blame it. It 
was n’t especially beautiful. Stella would be busy 
in the room till midnight “ redding it up,” when 
she got back. She did like a neat room to sleep 
in. It looked like somebody’s back yard just at 
present, with all Ed’s clothes and a few of her own 
hanging up to dry on a cord she’d stretched back 
and forth from wall to wall. Ed’s unwashed break¬ 
fast dishes were on the floor beside the bed. He’d 
roused enough to take the nourishment she’d left 
for him apparently. 

She blew the candle out, put it back upon the 
chair, closed the door and locked it, descended four 


STELLA DALLAS 


301 

flights of bare stairway, and went out again beneath 
the stars. 


2 

Stella could have spoken to Laurel if the win^ 
dow had been open. She was as near to her as that! 
She could see her as clearly as if she had been 
inside. How lucky the curtains had been forgotten 
again. How lucky this particular window had been 
selected in which to stand to meet the guests! 
Gracious, but the flowers were lovely. Stella had 
never seen so many in one room in her life. They 
must smell like a funeral. Those flowers had been 
sent to Laurel by her friends and admirers. She cer¬ 
tainly had a few! The papers had n’t exaggerated 
any, Stella guessed. Laurel, standing in the midst 
of her garden, was like a great big flower herself. 

Stella had never seen her look more beautiful. 
Her dress was white, chiffon, she thought, made 
over something silvery, that made her shine as if 
there was dew all over her. No dress Stella had 
ever provided for Laurel could touch this. One of 
those artists, whose address only the few and for¬ 
tunate possess, had made this fairy gown for 
Laurel, Stella guessed. My, how she became it! 
Gosh! She looked like a regular queen to-night! 

She carried a sheaf of white orchids on her left 
arm. Through the chiffon ribbon that tied the 
flowers Stella caught a glimpse of something that 
looked like diamonds sparkling on Laurel’s wrist! 
A moment later, as Laurel turned a little, she caught 
a glimpse of what was clasped about her throat. 
Pearls I A string of pearls! “ Oh, Lollie! Oh, dear, 


STELLA DALLAS 


302 

dear Lollie! ” She had come Into her own I She 
was being crowned in her rightful kingdom at last I 

Stella left the window for a moment and stole 
to the front corner of the house. Yes. There was 
an awning running from the front door to the 
street; there was a man in livery at the curbings 
shouting numbers; there was a long row of auto¬ 
mobiles on both sides of the street, reaching far 
away in both directions. All for Lollie! 

Stella glanced up. Every window was faintly 
aglow. Through one of them that must have been 
open she could hear music, dance music — piano, 
violins, saxophone, and drum. All for Lollie I She 
went back again to her window In the alley. 

Everything was as It ought to be. Even Lollle’s 
mother was as she ought to be — also wearing a 
gown made by an artist, also wearing pearls, also 
beautiful, also queenly. My I Mrs. Morrison was 
made for the part. As the guests approached her, 
Stella observed that there was that look of high 
approval and homage in their eyes that should be in 
the eyes of everybody who shook hands with 
Laurel’s mother. Stella observed, too, that when 
the guests shook hands with Laurel — with the lit¬ 
tle queen herself — there was more than high ap¬ 
proval in their eyes. There was sudden and spon¬ 
taneous pleasure, and afterwards murmured words 
of praise. 

For more than an hour Stella stood In the shadow 
of an electric pole, and feasted and feasted. A po¬ 
liceman finally discovered her and told her to move 
along. 

“ All right,” she replied cheerfully, “ I will. I’m 


STELLA DALLAS 


303 

ready now. I Ve seen enough.” For the instant 
before she had seen straight into Laurel’s heart for 
a fleeting ten seconds! 

Laurel did n’t know it. Laurel had no idea that 
her mother’s eyes were in the depth of the mirror 
she had gazed into, at her own reflection. 

It had happened like this. Stella had seen it all. 
She had observed the first faint flush of color creep 
down the back of Laurel’s neck as a young man 
had rushed up to her, and eagerly taken her hand 
in his, in greeting. Apparently the young man had 
asked Laurel to dance with him. As yet she had n’t 
left her post in the bay-window. She hesitated, 
glanced around the room — the guests were be¬ 
ginning to thin out — then accepted the invitation. 

Still flushed, her neck was still pink beneath her 
pearls, she looked about her for a place to lay her 
flowers, spied the window-sill, took three steps 
toward Stella, and laid her flowers down, almost as 
if in Stella’s lap; paused, raised her eyes. The 
window was just in front of her. The clear plate- 
glass with the light behind it was a perfect mirror. 
Laurel gave herself a long look. Six feet away 
Stella caught that look, hugged it to her close. She 
had never seen anything so dazzling, so luminous, in 
all her life before! It was n’t meant for her. It 
was n’t meant for any one on earth. It was like 
catching a bit of shooting star — of shooting 
heaven. 

The young man to whom Laurel gave her hand 
a moment later — the young god who had made 
Laurel look at herself like that — was none other 
than Richard Grosvenor. Stella would have known 
him anywhere. 



304 STELLA DALLAS 

“ That’s all right, then, too,” she murmured. 

3 

“Did n^t I tell you to get along there? ” 

“Yes, sir. I’m going. I was only seeing how 
pretty the young lady was.” 


THE END 



































































































































